sitting next to me on the tram there was a man that smelt like clean laundry and i almost leant my head on his shoulder, just to close my eyes for a moment, just to feel a shoulder. life is sensation but

that was an accident, but life is sensation, and sensational too

you learn not to need people and i don’t. he taught me that. he did too. there is strength in not needing people but there is comfort in knowing people are there if you need them.

this afternoon i panicked. maybe it was the dream i had about an invader in my childhood home. i think he killed someone. i don’t think it was me. maybe it was seeing my ex and realising i have no idea who i fell in love with, that he treated me terribly and i never fucking realised because he’s a good person. maybe it was because i haven’t eaten properly in two days. but it happened, i panicked. and i kept going. even though i didn’t want to. i had a long hot shower. i wore something sensual and violet. i went out and saw people that were happy to see me. i only had one glass of wine. the ride home was an inward spiral.

i am here and i am making spaghetti. i am here and i am going to eat spaghetti in bed and be okay. i am okay.

i like my shoulders.


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I drink, I laugh, I smoke, I write.

One thought on “>sistahtac<”

  1. Reblogged this on I place a hand on the body of the organism. It breathes beneath my fingertips. It has an invisible boundary, unreal in every way. A tissue width cage so transparent it might burn in the dawn. My palm lifts from it and my fingertips balance like ballet dancers with the quickest of talents. The beast’s eyes are all shut. The curtains pulled over, blinds set in place. It sleeps so soundly it won’t notice a thing. My prodding steps do little to stir it. It takes in air expanding against them. I push with some effort and the paint flexes concaving with the pressure. More than the way I imagined so many times before. Finally it splits, at each finger, my digits burst into the coarse stone sand below. The sand yields quite easily and falls past my wrists in a glitter down to the floor. I miss the beams expertly arranged to create the true wall. Its essence and honest stability and I’ve slipped past them. I reach further into an airless void uncertain of what’s next. A thin layer of wood. It turns to matchsticks with my touch and breaks easily by my elbowed pressure. Past the wooden façade I feel the brick, hard and rough and singular. I push and nothing. I bring all my fingers into a cone. I transform them into a fist. I pound the new earth baked by human hands and cured into blocks for transport. There’d be a solid wall here if not for that. Four solid layers that would reach up the single story apartment wall if it were allowed, but it’s not. It’s joint is its weakness. A glue that is never unbreakable. I feel for it and dig at it and it tears my nails and rips them clean off. My fist is now tighter without their self inflicting danger. I aim for only one and it frees. Its mortar cracks loose creating a small hole and I am free once again. I am not alone. I am not alone. I know HOW TO BE ALONE.

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