Never kiss a fool and never be fooled by a kiss.
With every lover I reach a stand off where I decide - its me or him, and I delete their numbers, lose their gifts, throw away their letters. I erase them from my mind. Always the girl with a dozen ex-lovers, half who will never speak to me because I threw such caustic words their way.
We've gone in strange semi-circles never crossing paths, to seeing each other everywhere, or if not one another, some reminder of. I can't resist seeing in that some intention by the cosmos that our world's collide - and right now, it feels as though our bumpers grind uncomfortably against one another's. I want you out. I don't want you where I go, which is why, I drunkenly say: asshole. You fucking asshole. Because I don't want to find you in my house, where it suddenly seems that you've stepped, and at the same time, I can't tell why I'm so adament.
It is for one, that I want so much for us to be friends. I want to will you to know me for more than my body, my sex, my silence. I want you to hear me and watch me the way friends see one another. This is my greatest, aching desire that I carry from man to man, for one to love me like a brother would. I want all of our desire to be poured into our conversations, or chance similaritities, our passions. I want our minds to be all that is tantilized, and our hands to only care for the other. I'm jealous that I'm not that girl, because then we'd actually know one another - instead I am the skirt you chase. And chase for years on end. And I put up such a weak fight, as the first flutter of your hand melts my resolve and I must admit.
The first few encounters, I was on autopilot. I wanted something, I wanted you, but kept a thin sheet between us as protection, allowing for total detachment within a matter of hours. The next time I saw you I was able to slip easily into amusing banter, a stand-up act where I entertained you and your friends. I was able to play me, and I think, make myself likeable. Desireable again. Because it seemed, I think to you, that I didn't care. This one last time, this one last time I insisted that I wanted you and boldly placed myself in your way, steadying myself to allow my chest to be unzipped, my soul to pour out, and something to be given away that I couldn't recover. I don't know if you even noticed - as we rolled to face each other and our lips met, hungrier than ever before - I thought I felt our hearts leap in a kind of union that seemed out of place here. Here which is nowhere. Unlocatable. Dislocated. Empty.
I have noticabley become detached from your friends, who thought I was so likable before, they must wonder (or do they know?) why I don't love you like they do. They must think I used you cruelly. But in my ears her sing-song voice says your name "isn't it sexy?" and asks me who my lovers are. I think sometimes she was hunting me there and then for you, when she brought us glasses of gin, grinning. I think she was trying to make me love you, and I wanted to say: I do. You don't understand, I do.
We've gone in strange semi-circles never crossing paths, to seeing each other everywhere, or if not one another, some reminder of. I can't resist seeing in that some intention by the cosmos that our world's collide - and right now, it feels as though our bumpers grind uncomfortably against one another's. I want you out. I don't want you where I go, which is why, I drunkenly say: asshole. You fucking asshole. Because I don't want to find you in my house, where it suddenly seems that you've stepped, and at the same time, I can't tell why I'm so adament.
It is for one, that I want so much for us to be friends. I want to will you to know me for more than my body, my sex, my silence. I want you to hear me and watch me the way friends see one another. This is my greatest, aching desire that I carry from man to man, for one to love me like a brother would. I want all of our desire to be poured into our conversations, or chance similaritities, our passions. I want our minds to be all that is tantilized, and our hands to only care for the other. I'm jealous that I'm not that girl, because then we'd actually know one another - instead I am the skirt you chase. And chase for years on end. And I put up such a weak fight, as the first flutter of your hand melts my resolve and I must admit.
The first few encounters, I was on autopilot. I wanted something, I wanted you, but kept a thin sheet between us as protection, allowing for total detachment within a matter of hours. The next time I saw you I was able to slip easily into amusing banter, a stand-up act where I entertained you and your friends. I was able to play me, and I think, make myself likeable. Desireable again. Because it seemed, I think to you, that I didn't care. This one last time, this one last time I insisted that I wanted you and boldly placed myself in your way, steadying myself to allow my chest to be unzipped, my soul to pour out, and something to be given away that I couldn't recover. I don't know if you even noticed - as we rolled to face each other and our lips met, hungrier than ever before - I thought I felt our hearts leap in a kind of union that seemed out of place here. Here which is nowhere. Unlocatable. Dislocated. Empty.
I have noticabley become detached from your friends, who thought I was so likable before, they must wonder (or do they know?) why I don't love you like they do. They must think I used you cruelly. But in my ears her sing-song voice says your name "isn't it sexy?" and asks me who my lovers are. I think sometimes she was hunting me there and then for you, when she brought us glasses of gin, grinning. I think she was trying to make me love you, and I wanted to say: I do. You don't understand, I do.
posted by Francine at 11:19 p.m.
1 comments
