I’m only allowed
to say that I love you in
A Thing I Thought But
Didn’t Say And Now
I Am Writing it Down
It would be an honour to be your ex.
You wept. Who even weeps anymore? I bawl or tear up or cry, once I even blubbered, but you wept. This is exactly analogous to that time you caressed my skin when I thought you would stroke my chin or pet my hair. You’re from another time, another world. You called me dashing, when I’m nothing above handsome, am I? Am I? I don’t want to make love to you, I want blinding sex, I want a good shag, I want to fuck you, but you wrap your legs around me lovingly and I don’t know how to correct you.
More from the archives. Something about the spiderweb of connotations and me learning how to write, and how to love. They’re the same thing probably.
The whole, “you’re beautiful,” thing. You are. The only beautiful person I know and I don’t know why. Others can be pretty, hot, cute, sexy, gorgeous, jaw-dropping (you are all those things) but none of them can be beautiful, like you are. Some define beauty as perfection and some define it as perfectly flawed, and I don’t know, it’s not about that. There’s just something about the way you laugh and the way you kiss and the way you think. You’re a mayfly, bewinged and ephemeral, aren’t you? I would like to admire you, but, it’s okay if I can’t.
Another from the archives. I’m still fond of this declaration of love from a very stumbling mouth. (I’ve used that word and really meant it maybe three or four times after I wrote this. Sometimes it slips out of my mouth like a moth from an old abandoned wardrobe. Sometimes I write beauty in stories to mark lies.)
Reposting this old drabble from 2012 because I deleted the old blog it was on in a fit of entropy. Might post more of these if there’s anything salvage-worthy. Anyway. This piece is based on a gorgeous song by Unwoman, called The Heroine: unwoman.bandcamp.com/track/the-heroine
I urge you to go listen to that. And when you’ve read my piece, to read this excellent post by @earlgreyhot, also inspired by that song: earlgreyhot.com/blog/the-heroines-demons/
Cross the street before the light turns red, arrive out of breath at your theatre. You’re playing someone who’s losing her love tonight again. Five hundred sirens blare to dampen the sound of the bombs. The play is in the basement, no-one’s here to take my ticket. Everything goes crimson and I hide in the dark behind a pillar. Fifty thousand pairs of hands grab me when I catch a bombflash in a shard of glass. I get thrown out. Remember me as more than the shadow I will glue to the wall. I hope you believed I would show.
I am brushing my lips against
the rough spots
on your soles; I
am shaving your head; the day
when I have kissed
every square inch of your skin
will pass us by unacknowledged.
One day, without warning, I put a lit cigarette into her eye. The air is perfectly immobile and the only sounds are the sizzle from the cigarette, and a half-swallowed cry far back in her throat.
I stop smoking and I pack my bags to go far away, but my train ticket disappears.
“I want you to stay,” she says.
“What if I hurt you again?”
“Do you plan to?”
“No, that is why I’m leaving.”
“So stay. Unless your guilt is more important to you than my feelings. I forgive you.”
She loves me just as playfully as before.
There is a certain kind of lie. I know, I have a long list of specific mendacity, and this is yet another one. This lie is one that two humans say to each other when something ends, and they mean it at the time. As the days, weeks, months go by they hear it again, and reinterpret it, and something bubbles up that was there the whole time: they never meant it, in their heart of hearts.
I said, “for a while”. You nodded. I still mean it; give me time. I hope that was not one of these lies.
Subj: A Hell of a Thing to Forgive Someone For
Hello, it is me again. You must be sick half to death of hearing my voice by now. Do you hear my voice when you read these, or have you forgotten it? I try to read books hearing your voice, but my thoughts tend to stray. They say some things, beginnings and ends mostly, you never forget. I haven’t forgotten a single stupid thing I said; I try to remember you from those particles. It is unfair.
I was wondering if you would care to talk to me at all.
Subj: Apologies for all the Subterfuge
I’ve been writing you false love letters. It was a necessity; I hope your feelings have not been hurt. You must think me cruel, but it is important that they question everything I write. I cannot let them onto my real designs.
Maybe we were childhood friends, almost-lovers, or I picked you out from the phonebook.
You will receive a phone call in about a week’s time, and a sly slick voice will ask you if you know who I am. It is paramount that you answer that you do not. I am sorry.