bowerbird-fingers

a tiny rag doll made of ripped sentences and lined paper from scented diaries count out the change and broken plastic spoons into the hand of. she doesn't care about 3am walks beaches and metalfaced girlfriend[s]. stir counterclockwise five times and wait for the sediment to fall through the window, drifting deadly and lead mercury slips under the door to watch as you fall sediment into bed and lose yourself in the sheets egyptian cotton. they weigh more than you.

this is peeling my brain apart, pulling it string from string and making it hard to concentrate. and whenever i see you i forget coherent sentence structure and act like a twit because all of a sudden a thousand or so years of evolution have gone backward and i am a single slimy creature and shit, you are so so much out of my league. and i remember when you refused to use that form of communication. and now, you collapsed, gave in, and i really wish i had that number... or something and this is really wierd and please don't say a word about this anyone. it could be someone a million miles away. i think i'd prefer that, because there'd be l

i guess that there's a large part of me; a horrible, solitary, feminist part, that just wants her to leave him so that i can have what i once did, like a second childhood in a different setting. one where men weren't really spelled out in capital letters and the jacaranda was close to my window. I slept all day today, in some self-absorbed delirium i took that big slice of doing time and made it into my own in a blue flannelette and rugby jerseys kind of way. i slept until late this afternoon and woke with this ridiculously foggy head and an imprint of some bead i was wearing on in between the whitest parts of my thighs. then meandered awa