a self-portrait of, strikethrough
the further you put your word from your heart, the thinner it sounds. i put my word so far away from my heart the way i put away a plate of dessert after finishing half-portion of my dinner. i’ve been told to lose my curves before. to cut the volume of my shape into something less than a form. i fill myself with hollow so i do not have to become something real. i’d be an image that someone could always admire. i’d be an image so quiet, nothing shakes from my entire being, and nothing to apologize for.
whenever i am about to tell you how i truly feel, my mouth cries out against the past between us. or the past that never happened between us. feeling choked like a taste of guilt. there must be some way to pour our feelings without having to apologize afterwards, mother. maybe somewhere over the constellation of pains we could start to listen to each other without having to brace ourselves for the raw truth we can never speak. in a world miles away from guilt, we can simply let our mouths be full of heart. and tenderness.
a working theory of heterosexual female gaze
men are exhausting but i can love them as visual experience. it is safer to like a man imagined. an image of a man projected on the screen. the fiction of man can never disappoint you. they will not come and do you harm. in my head i fucking peg masculinity as a shameful fantasy. i imagine tasting their kisses under the moonlight every night. and let my body crumble without a sound. under their weight as heavy as my guilt.
you have to turn off the lamp before you undress. your clothes do not make a sound as they fall on the floor. in low visibility your shadow stands as an approximate of who you pretend to be. and there is something so intimate about listening to the sighes of your body. it’s the private whisper between strangers with no need for facades.
i want to stop watching a cat wagging its tail on the screen so i do not have to read the latest headline in my twitter. it is 12 AM and someone out there does not know if they can eat breakfast in the morning. if they can live in the morning. or if they should. they do not cease to exist even if i do not see them even if i do not know their name even if i do not think about them. i’d believe in miracle like a five-year old if that helps but #TwitterDoYourMagic could only do so much. magic works with the pace of traffic jam in modern era. idk. i had a failure of imagination. or maybe an imagination of failure. but can i call it my imagination if it exists everywhere? it’s a plague of disease, of ambulance sirene—
of reality as we know it.