Sex hair, check.
Dress from Forever 21, check.
Trying to pretend that life inside this dreaded air-conditioned nightmare isn’t a nightmare, check.
It’s Friday, and I am listening to L.A. Witch cause I like their aesthetic.
They remind me of smut and silk.
But my mind is elsewhere. It is in my dreams. The ones I had this morning.
My stomach feels trapped. As if all my insecurities live in the lining of my large intestine.
There are truths, and then there are absolute truths.
I am a Sagittarius Sun, Cancer Rising, Virgo Moon.
Does that even MEAN anything?
I want it to mean something.
It means I was born at a specific time, to specific parents, in a specific place.
But I’m not there anymore and where I am is where I hope to stay for at least a little longer.
I have a husband.
I have a typewriter.
I have wine
I have weed.
I have a job.
I have a bed.
I have Aleve.
I have a bass guitar.
I have journals from 2012, when I was in love with no one.
I need to stay close to the flame that he helps build.
This husband of mine, I hope he stays awhile.
I like him.
I really like him.
But, it’s not easy.
I mean, is it supposed to be?
I keep pulling on my hair, tugging on the loose ones and running them like floss through my teeth, breaking them by circling them tight around my tongue, then my fingers.
Like an artery popping.
Like my epiphanies getting epiphanies.
His eyelids carry my cowardice,
then he swallows,
and serenades me through closed curtains.
I listen through the blinds and let his plush cradle.
I am a coward because I am afraid.
He is a coward because he is afraid.
Let us build the bulk of us together?
Let us eat vegetables that’ll turn our tongues pink.
Let us eat the body of Christ, only make sure it’s gluten-free.
I’m no WITCH, I’m your mother.
I’m no WITCH, I’m your father.
I’m no WITCH, I’m your sister, your brother, your childhood crush, the first boy you kissed, the fingers that dug deep inside your cunt, the tongue that you sucked on, the cock you came on, your favorite ice-cream.
Your cemetery plot.