This is my love song. It goes like this:

Do you think cunts have a memory? I think they must. I'm doing this again in that way I only did it once before and it's already feeling so um, fucking good, that I'm not sure why I ever stopped. The quick unleash of all my choke held thought strands. I've been stepping over words like they were hot coals, like the wrong one would singe my skin, or his or her skin, and all the while I've been getting lost inside touches.
and when have contradictions ever stopped roaring in the pit of me from the first time i tried to wallpaper my insides with a voice?

you dance seriously, like there are lives in the balance, and sometimes you find it hard to find the unattractive things about any of them.

it's not any sort of him. it's a her. no cunt memory for who was last inside me me me me me, it's a me instead. this delicious me.

you are transfixed by your eyes in the bathroom mirror, sooty and yesterday underneath the blue green. blue now, because there was water involved, and tears make them blue. the long long straightness of the hair, and when the fuck did it get so long and blond and against the sooty eyes you could be a morning marilyn or a lady of the evening, or the star of a movie you never wrote. you run your hand over the almost sickeningly soft skin of the cheek, the neck, traveling down to the left, soft: cold hand, long nail over white/smoothhill and then erect, oh still soft, nerve ending deep pink , and they're bigger, you think maybe, more alive, but no, no, maybe this is just the first time you've run your fingers over them with this sort of oh.

you see them of course, the imperfections, the blemishes. they're there, like they've always been, but they're irresistable. you have to touch them. run your fingers over the bottom of your ribcage, and down, always down, and you never noticed how smooth the ride was, or maybe you're just really watching this time, and you delight in all of it. you wish you had something, fruit maybe, and yes, fruit. something soft and delicate that you could break and feel the juice trickle around. grapes, maybe, the firm, cold skin.

it wasn't supposed to be like this. it wasn't. but it got that way, and you can't say you're sorry. you're wondering all of a sudden about the falling to pieces and that sobers you, makes you stop. you sit, and try to cry, but nothing comes out. mostly because you're in a bar looking up at a screen and you're reminded infinitesmally of everything at once or you're in a coffee shop and "i wanna hold your hand" comes on. and you're in all of these times together and apart and it's all happening now and somehow then too.

and who can blame anyone for all of these swingset existences? sometimes you want love, and sometimes you push it away. when someone is that patient, you have to love them. you are grateful to them. you are indebted to them. and then you want to hurt them.