what would it be like if i thought i was pretty what would it be like if i carried that knowledge around like i do the knowledge that i am a writer pretty like peonies pretty like satin pretty like the child i was would i speak to you differently would i be healthier less stressed less worried would i buy more shoes or fewer would i be more or less afraid of death would i find something else to hate about myself would i get this jealous when your eyes aren’t touching me in this city of movie star beauties would i be able to write such raw and seductive words would you have fallen in love with me sooner would i have frightened you away before you had the chance?
good question. i don’t know. like, a lot. and nothing. and why the fuck did my battery cable die on me????
you ever hear of The Boy? the boy is in love. he "don’t need, don’t eat, don’t sleep, [he’s] in love again…" except, you know, girl. and what can i say? i dropped the shoe. the chancla. the heel. whirlwind romances, I think they write books about these things. but whatever – the point is… I’m remembering now what it’s like to be with someone, to love someone truly, madly, deeply… and all that wheepy mcweepy, lovey mclovey shit and as it goes, i’ve been catching myself slipping up on things. forgetting more than usual and if you know me that’s saying something. Letting go much too quickly. And just truly, allowing myself to be happy.
“wait, so does that mean now that she’s happy and in love, she feels like she can stop posting? Damn, she’s one of those girls!” ……some say. But no! not truly. Not really. Not intentionally.