Be honest. Is there more to my curious heart than loneliness and humor?
Fuck everything. I don’t have my language. Being alone is weird. The only reason to get anything DONE is myself. What a full and boring life. If this were a piece of paper I’d clutch at it and crumple it up. I yearn to say something that penetrates hearts. Like a song that penetrates mine. Like a smile that almost surfaces on the face of stranger.
And being alone gets easier and easier. I’ll wonder about glistening lips that contain treasures of devotion, but then the urge to crawl into my bed and stop thinking about meeting her overtakes me. I’d rather read my book or get lost in teaching those kids or go to a café and smoke a cigarette, wondering if I look pretty. Yes, wondering if I look pretty, I’m not even sure anymore that I’m beautiful. It would be nice for slender fingers to weave themselves into my little hands. We could do stupid things like make faces at each other in the mirror before a shower. We could sit up late sharing a croissant, drinking milk, quoting books to each other. Quotes that reminded us of our lives. We’d take turns telling stories about childhood memories. Like the first time I had an orgasm, a confused, delighted, and terrified 12 year old boy. Or the first time she shoplifted. We could stand in line for discount theater tickets the night of the show and get a burger afterwords. I need a haircut.