Writing like I'm in love
it's for fictional purposes
Writing like I’m in love
telling forgetting
sleeping waitingTelling. I’ll never understand why or how he got to be so kind like that. Sometimes I wonder if he knows how special he is, but I can tell that he thinks of himself just like anybody else, even more meekly than other people probably think of themselves. If I tell him how special he is, he’ll manage to receive it like an everyday compliment that I’d give to anyone, when it’s not that. And I’ll say out loud to him that it’s not that, but he’ll turn it into just that once again.
Forgetting. When I think about him, I can’t help but feel endless. I feel endless right now. How to describe this… the act of pressing up on him is a pool of reward. He has a pacifying effect on me, but every now and then, he will say something to me that bewilders me in a hot and mad kind of way. Still, he has the reverse effect of every single other person; he makes me forget my body. I forget my body the instant I am relevant to him, vice versa. I don’t feel beautiful or need to feel it. I could never say the wrong thing or say too much, yet he listens and relays a thing back to me, I wish it could happen every day.
Sleeping. Talking to him feels like love. How is that possible? Talking to him feels like love. I could put my head down and fall asleep in the middle of us talking just because I wanted to, and then I would be asleep, and maybe we could find a way to keep talking somehow. I have a feeling it would be possible for us to be asleep and talk to each other at the same time.
Waiting. It is largely unclear to me who is who when it comes to this. When he crouches down and covers his ears, he becomes small for my love, but I remember once that I faltered, and he picked it up for me like he was waiting to. In that way, I am also bewildered. He has endless, endless patience for my antics, but when I hiccup, he holds nothing against me, he holds it all for me, like he was waiting to.
He is simultaneously domestic and beyond my comprehension. He is taller than me, but I have never noticed. Are things supposed to be this suspiciously gentle? Would I get bored and crawl back to something more stimulating? Is it better to flee before I have to watch it lose sustenance and die? Is the conflict around the corner?
Instead of inflammation, he responds to my faulty logic with love. And why? I would think I’d have lost him for good, but then there he would be, hot on my trail, like I didn’t even move, like it took no effort at all.
She was everything
He reminisces about someone I don’t know, some ‘she,’ who was once everything to him. When he was young, like how I am now. She was everything, she really was, she was everything, she was.
And it’s right here, against my will, that identity’s relevance to me becomes exposed.
I don’t have to inquire. I know she’s white, like him, and I’m not like either of them. I will never belong to him the way she does, even when she doesn’t. Even when she doesn’t belong to him at all, I will never not belong to him in that way.
And even if I did belong to him and she didn’t, she would still belong to him in ways that I never would.
All because of some arbitrary reason, identity has become stupidly, unforgivably relevant to me. This is how I know I will never belong to this kind of wordless abstraction. Because I am stuck here, by myself.
my white guy loves me he loves me so bad
he'll never leave me it makes him sad
i give him love he gives me head
he's all i need he's all i have
Play pretend
whenever someone looks at me, i’ll pretend it’s you
whenever someone looks at me, i pretend it’s youMaybe I’m getting stuck on something that doesn’t exist. Maybe that’s the way I like it. Maybe I want to make him into something that will hurt me. Maybe that’s the way I like it.
He’s the type to drink black coffee because he actually likes the way it tastes. His partner is the type to drink tea, (because she actually likes the way it tastes). I drink cappuccinos with extra shots and milk and syrup and whatever else they have because I have both a caffeine and sugar addiction. I haven’t really thought about how it tastes. I guess it tastes good.
Because of stupid and arbitrary reasons, I am very troubled. I have an addictive and forgetful personality, both obsessive and negligent. I have moments. If he saw me in one of my moments, I know I would lose him altogether. Me, a salivating mop on the ground, eyes glazed over, shaking, and I can’t see or hear or breathe, for an hour straight, or maybe two. Sometimes, after the fact, I’ll realize I was screaming then, because of the way my throat would feel afterward. And just imagine it. My poor, horrified white man wouldn’t be able to understand what is drooling and writhing on the ground in front of him. I’m an animal-animal.
She is kind
His partner could never be so awful. I want to cry. As awful as me. As awful as I am. She could never be as awful as I am.
Because her kind doesn’t even have the capability to stoop to this level of bloodied. She is kind and intelligent. She has my good traits, plus more, and none of the bad ones. And she is better-looking than I am, and she doesn’t try as hard as I do. But this doesn’t even matter to her. Because she is kind.
She doesn’t need to be beautiful because she is kind, but she is beautiful anyway. I want to cry. She doesn’t need me like I need her because she has him. But she never needed him the way I needed him to begin with. The way I need him.