to tell myself that life is
just like this
because i will stroll
down the winter streets
of smog & men & mermaids,
winding past my inhibitions, my fears,
my absolute indecision, unknowing, all&everything
the twists, the turns, the straightness of the road
& in short, i was afraid
the only time i've stopped crying is in my sleep,
& even then i can't be sure.
((for who knows? i may cry over the ratio of sultanas to bran in my cereal. i may cry over the distance of the sea. i may cry over the songs that mirror me perfectly. i may cry over the blackness of ink, writing the lines that make me wonder what it is to be alive.))
i just want to pull out all my postcards
& write to you
& tell you that
i have turned transparent,
jealous, blue. i have watched
all my daydreams break, break & then come true.
i just want to sew all my vintage skirts & dresses
wrinkled, cowering in the bleakness of my room.
i just want to have lunch in miserable cafes
reading all the literature of the earth
page-by-page-by-page.
i just want to travel on trains
to watch the greygreen of the ocean,
to walk barefoot in emeraldblack grass
at midnight in the autumn.
i just want to lift it
out of my thoughts &
put it down in words.