nothing I want doesn't risk overextension.

or the polls are in & I have a new favorite lip color.

I am watching a woman, who it would be fun to be, watch her man's mouth as he speaks. The gestures across his lips. I watch her mouth listen + smile & bend into a thought. her man's mouth is unremarkable but her eyes look them into winning a popular vote.

the polls are in & I have a new favorite lip color. the man I love presently doesn't seem to notice, but it's supposed to be a subtle color. It still stains my coffee cups. I still love him. I imagine his mouth. A garage. Light spilling.

I am almost embarrassed to admit how long I have written letters to boys. if only he could know how I saw him. it's the myth of reflectomancy. if I can show him how wonderful he is maybe he'll see me a spectacular. I've lost count of the names I've scribbled. Dear / To My Love / adulthood when I've almost felt bereft in love, I scream "I love you" in my room. I've only almost been caught once. it's never about the boy but the letter, the act. the performance. I want applause after, only. I've never not known me to be at least a little love-mad even when I've been celibate for years.

I'm curious about the parameters of intimacy when performed in public. I'm watching a man watch a couple gently caress each other while conversing. I am a voyeur's voyeur. I misunderstand privacy because I assume I have nothing to watch. what if my best self is unremarkable? what a gift. I want someone to watch someone trace my palm lovingly in a quiet cafe afternoon.

making eyes was the first language I spoke fluently. my mouth is always the lesser of two evils. you'd rather me say something than just look at you.

if the gestural is a helpful location, I consider my best desires a reach. nothing I want doesn't risk overextension.

I am watching the same woman caress her man's throat. I want to be her hand & his throat. I want submission & constriction the same distance from my grasp. I want you to be curious. We all read the body differently but my looks touch further than my wingspan is built for. I am watching that same woman laugh with her whole mouth. I want to be the air that escapes.

the patio of my favorite bar is empty.

or I still find myself baffled when I stand upright.

the cute new black dude who works here introduced himself, though I already knew his name. a small benefit of being familiar is the attraction of friendly folk. A mural on the wall says "all your friends are already here" & I remember how many people have ruined my day on this very string-lit gravel patio. the afternoon can be a dayshift this time of year. I used to think I filled my own days. I'm not musing existential responsibility or some absolution of agency. I used to think our popular metrics of time were some finite reality. I fill my days with wonder, warding off, & worry. Today it's a pain in my hip & a non-playable character's feelings. Even the righteous get their feelings hurt & usually first. Nothing can be all or end-all. I fill my days with despair, drama, & desire. I want all the attention exclusively when I want it, no time else. Control is a big word because it feels so impossible.

every child looks at me different so I'm able to believe innocence exists at least temporally. I believe naivete is my greatest flaw. I usually detest earnest in others. I don't need to believe in people's ability to get by regardless. A lack of unsolicited sympathy cannot a bitch make. I ask every question allowed for the second time. The first is an in my ideal voice, in my head, possibly yelling. I am hardest on myself first but folks just see a fire & call it a tantrum. There's a middle ground between asking for attention & setting a house on fire. I wish I could do either convincingly. Civility is the ugliest & most ubiquitous fashion. I, too often, resent my smile because it obscures my vagrant apathy to casual engagement. when I smile & mean it, it means anything to the receiver. the something on my face is always just my face. rarely egg, often disgust. the look is unrested brick face. fuck-you-look-at-façade. clownish accents. hurt feelings because a fool isn't fluent in his own gibberish.

when you don't understand something, why doesn't a question form? the is no comfort to me in the uninterrogated so I find joy in nothing. I place it exactly where I want. In the best way, nothing lasts forever. There will always be a break from the hubbub if I talk about it in real-time. I used to need to be real, now I've displaced that craving toward time. I've been known to accidentally kill a vibe. All it takes is one of many sideways glances. Fuck I miss wine. I wonder if the sadness is the only constant left. It reminds me I'm alive, so I've stopped ignoring its knock. Increasingly less afraid but particularly still upset. This also means every joy is louder. I never mean to imply balance or cycle is fixed but mutable weather is a revelation.

hot sauce with a baby in hand

or Dog Douche gotta go.

the last time I saw this clown in my cafe, he tried to secretly buy me a coffee while his girlfriend waited outside with their dog. we have fucked one & a half times & the dog came after the second. He describes his needs as infectious. he's been watching my house. my roommates get freaked out. I'm not embarrassed for having been with him, I'm exclusively mortified he thinks I need his attention any more than I've already asked. We haven't fucked since February, only hugged twice since then. He's jealous of my purpleheart. The breaking point should have been the leash. As an intentionally audacious bitch, I resent casual acts if bawdiness. I told my purpleheart about the clown & he presented a means to an end.

anyway, hype feels like even more morose deflation of vibe. Beasts of hype look exclusively like mourners. The post-hip of personal aesthetic. There is nothing spectacular about my style, it's that I even attempt one that renders me standout. sometimes I do just be throwing on clothes. I don't need to pretend to not care about fashion. but my language for most things begins with the optics or fashion is the color of all my commentary.

the clown, the hype, the unsettling into Fall. fucking seasons, yo. no more spring & summer every other day. how many times can I reference an award-winning musical? Bill T. Jones is one of the greatest choreographers of all time. I don't know when I stopped dreaming of stages. Now I long for transmission, stream me live.

a house beat with a crystal stair,

or what to do about the wandering eyes.

the cliche of a literal construction worker. I'm bored of being curious let me be attractive. come upstairs & see me some time. Mae West made some points. I ain't tryna give it all up but attention makes me the silliest putty. I make myself laugh first. color desperation in pink because my favorite color is amethyst. color me raw. cuddle geode. suckle pre-formed tit. when you look upon this monument, pray.

I imagine all gazing as worship so I can be surveilled & demand a fee. the outside is so hot. & I already wrote enough this season about being visible. there is little correlation between family & familiar outside of the etymological root assuming closeness. I live close. Enough. I want a different dimension. contact doesn't inherently imply entanglement. touch doesn't always require reaching some interior.

I'm getting ahead of myself. the viewership is a closed circuit. across the street. a cadre of construction workers inappropriate high visibility attire. been seen. so visible. from here I can't tell which is the cutest. they are all wearing sunglasses.

I am more familiar with vices than outlets. most writers see their work as some fleshy living in the world. I wish I could engage my writing like that. writing isn't an outlet so much as if don't, I'll forget I'm alive & possible. but y'all don't need much so I write for myself first. it is is an outlet that pours right back into me. Music is sort of an outlet but whenever I work too hard I get mad folks don't notice.

I picture all my favorite rooms empty. Today I considered waking up & deciding this was all a dream & I was supposed to get back to my town now.

this is what it sounds like when doves vogue. this is how I talk about competition with evasion. My new outlet is competition because I'm not normally inclined & a challenge is needed. I can gamble attention. I'll be seen regardless. Maybe he'll see me in Dreamcast.

public questions about ordination

or why everywhere I go someone got something to say.

this time someone bought me a drink. the women with the men who do too much always make them buy me whatever I'm having. remember my shoddy depth perception. inch, mile, kilometer, shoulder, blade. I appreciate restraint in public. No one would ever accuse me of subtly. I am prettier than I am nice. My most reliable frustration is repeating myself. I eavesdrop to prevent my feedback from becoming be-bop. fool myself out of worry. I love when it works but I can't complain about anything. It works now. I used to be more worried about even the slightest comforts. I practice teaching men to accept compliments. I tell myself I've mastered the art.

the biggest difference between fluff & gruff is less about meat & more about might. I hated that. The biggest difference between talent & success is an empty platitude. this summer wasn't supposed to teach me anything & I almost forgot. I almost called the fragility that thundered me awake a penance for failure. my biggest defense against emotional turmoil is my fetish for martyrdom. maybe she really did give it her all? maybe I have an all to give. at the apex of weakness & willpower is the desire to figure out how to be forever. not the matter at hand but all matter meaning something. The biggest difference between urgency & memory is who is believing in what at which time. I will hate that more later & that was my second time attempting that statement. a raspberry balsamic lesson. semi-sweet dessert. would recommend.

I must begin this bit by saying there is nothing inherently wrong with neighbors. still, neighborhoods are a colonial concept built from class politics & isolation. or I hate the politeness of being watched by people needing to figure out why such a singular being has infiltrated "their" spot. a buzzword, in these parts, is invasive species. if you think about it, we are in the most livable part of the geography. the summer has meant more outside which thankfully feels easier & easier. reparations is a buzzword. I do like to receive sometimes. owe & owed are buzzing. ownership can help but remind me of theft. so I imagine the less I own the less can be taken from me. I want to believe I only expect attention & that may be true. I want what I have to mean something or at leave get me somewhere meaningful. want material meaning.

I've started believing what I get is exclusively above my paygrade. I am indebted to daily grace. responsible most for gratitude. I have been sleeping differently. time has been pleasantly corresponsive. I don't have an epistolary to send off. I am telling you because I must know myself. making do of tantrum & seemingly arbitrary politics.

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