I am a twelve year-old child. My history is not interesting.
I am looking so hard for the thing that contains me.
Smoking cigarettes to remember what youth feels like. My hair is soft and hangs over my face. I love the feeling that I am still growing.
We have left now and it is the middle of the night.
Spreadsheets and empty wine bottles; which do you believe in? Logged in forty minutes ago. Is this love? My fingers are not yellow and there are no consequences. Everyone wakes up in the morning, more or less. Office chairs remain in place. Hostilities do not mellow.
I am a twelve year-old child and you are my cold and shallow mother. My fault really. Hands I would like to break.
I remember when we thought of everything, when the world was the biggest place. I remember a torrent of water pouring out of the earth. Running its length, adhering to the current.
A decade passes.
Our hot bodies splayed out on the rocks.
Wednesday, 18 April 2012
We are all belly up. Alexander Graham Bell is kissing Mabel. I am criticised regarding my choice of font. If I can avoid making a decision, I will. The pattern in the coral repeats. I hold it in my hand and try my very best to imagine. One hundred watt light bulbs and the resulting strain on our faces. I miss you. It grows dark here with increasing regularity. We are defined by all the things we say we like or do not like to one another. Time moves slowly when you wait for it. Take back everything and keep it safe somewhere. I only want to look at pictures of your eyes: that way it won't feel awkward. The things we are attracted to change to fit our needs. Say something beautiful and spell it like you mean it. The sound of air escaping. This is the oldest I have ever been. Distant conversations offer a sense of belonging. I leave my bedroom door open when I read. Cupping my belly with my hands makes me feel so tiny. So strange how we can touch ourselves. I would like to sleep in a ball with six people closely breathing. The night isn't dark when it is warm and human.