Reading

It goes like this.

The floor is covered in sheets. Not your sheets and they crunch and you’re laughing laying there, adjusting to someone , not sure if his eyes are blue or green, pale though, and smug. There’s no looking at him, so turn around.

How warm everything is because his hands are cold. You’re hating everything. You throw it back—sling it—pull it across his face. Say it—say your mouth is a chainsaw. You yank the horns out, hammer it, pinch the tip of it. The whole chest of it rises and into the air it goes. Until the intimacy of your anger feels foreign, yep.

It will never matter. Tell yourself whatever you want. Tell yourself to breathe in and flop against the wall. Say yes and no whenever. Go like a broken air-conditioner into the street. You’re not in the same place your were a year ago, not even close to the time you put your head between your legs to block the sound of screaming. Your hair has not lifted. You are not cold. In fact, you are so far away from the thought of it, you think—this is not-me. This is not-me and never will be.

I’m seeing you in a picture. And I’m hold the picture at an arm’s length. We’re shunting whiskey into paper cups. And even though I don’t drink whiskey, I drink with you. And we laugh like we never did—but it’s different. It’s not like what happened. Or what won’t happen. It’s washed away. It’s like staring into this mirror saying nothing—oh but, yes. You still say yes.

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