The note I left myself to remind myself began

I was trying to ask if I was a fucking idiot. You said no. I asked the wrong question. You’re angry, but you’re still in love. And I wanted to tell you the scary things, my dad hitting my dog, & 3-year-old me, & in the rain 20 minutes for the keeping of safety…

Both the note & our conversation ended in ghosts given up, but morning brought more of your poking fingers & prodding winks to suggest I hold a little tighter to hauntings. Grey is my least favorite color, though shading an activity I frequent; You don’t have to wonder my eye color & can calibrate moods based on where it falls on the wheel each day — Green’s been present for weeks, & the relation to your input twists like laundry.

I bend in half, molding speech back because I know you want my domesticity, accuracy, letting the human factor fail to be a factor for the capital-R Right constantly sought — Attention-to-detail makes for the best blow jobs, darling. Require then reject photographic evidence. Pass an aggressive whine for attention to open bar reception, spin cycle to silence, but alteration just doesn’t squeeze into the schedule. I’m founder & president of a club to which I don’t attend meetings: Hi, my name is Alcoholic, & I’m an introvert. Enjoy each others’ bodies while I see to shame & bruising of knees that will shine just below hems you’ll sign off on, since they’re just enough to entertain for 4-hour guest spots. Tuck away your superpowers: assisting starvation & suggestion; let me rub out the blurs by insisting the glasses are the kicker & the killer.

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