not to pursue you. it is
full of excuses & insights into
how little i seem to think of
myself. things like; how fucked up
i am, how not-pretty i am, how
my aversion to UV rays will lead
to me taking your hat, & so forth.
this ego has been bruised&battered
by such a foray & i am hating you
to death & feeling so fine
about that. yes? i
hope so
also, it is so arduous &
repetitive to keep writing you out,
knowing that i will fill all the pages
in the world trying to fix myself, while
only fuelling this fixation. all i want now is
to feel the withdrawl symptoms. but
secretely i am scheming ways to let
this drag on like a
pretty cigarette
honesty only makes this worse.
dollface, you are destruction
& that's what makes it so
difficult
how exquisite these conversations are,
conducted alone on friday evenings;
thoughts that invade like
dustcoloured moths,
taunting & old.
the stairs above creak with
saintly premonitions about the
perfect way to end, or to
begin. people should not
be as complicated, inept
& ill-equipped,
as this
want to say so long, so long
it is taking about that time. i
am having mad fits in the
middle of the night, plagued
by this very refrain
obsessions never know an end
only finding sleep for minutes
now & then. it is unbelievably
pathetic how well i have acted
the lovesickheroine
i waited by the window today
under a mottled, angry sky
by the row of columns in
the english garden- such
seduction in shades of
zephyr green. although
what i would really want
is to have an affair, by
the twenty foot tree.