Saturday, June 09, 2018

That Book I Never Wrote

6.9.18

“You remember when your momma smacked you cuz you got carried away talking about your best friend you were mad at, and the curtains swung right like there was a breeze, and the pitcher of lemonade fell off the window sill, and all the lemon slices flopped out like dead goldfish, and the wooden floor got dark where it was soaked, and you looked at your mom cuz you didn’t know what you got smacked for, but she was already drying her hands on her apron to check on the food she had on the stove? That’s the summer me and your sister did it and she got pregnant.”


3.27.19

I should have left a big blank page after that closing quotation mark. So much was meant to follow... could have followed but didn't. A part of me thinks, or rather wishes, that there is still something there, waiting for me to scratch it out of the paper so that I can read it. Because, after all, it is already there, anything and everything, from masterpiece to trash, to absolute nothingness... just waiting for me to make up my mind about what it is and whether I will reveal it, dress it, or ignore it.

I don't want to have sex with her and I hate jerking off, so I know its not just about sex, even though I want to have sex, at least I think I do. She doesn't even have to look beautiful. She just has to look beautiful to me... and not in that physical sense, though she definitely ought to be physically attractive; but more than that, she must find me attractive and want me. But not in that overt way, though it must be undeniable, but in that way that a drug addict wants another hit when they are trying to quit. I want to be her addiction, but not in that evil destructive way. More like somebody who has an undeniable craving for strawberries even though strawberries make her break out. I want to be wanted like that - cuz if there was nothing to cause a second thought, it might be too overwhelming, making me feel psychologically claustrophobic. I want to be that glass of water she always comes back to to quench her thirst, not that kool aid with the aftertaste that comes from that sugary film on the back of your tongue after you gulp it down. I don't want to be an aftertaste in anyone's mouth - not even an intoxicating liquor. I want to be a palate cleaner, crystal clear, and the first thing that comes t mind when she gets thirsty.

But I don't want to have sex with her. Not until she is willing to... no, fuck that. Not until she unzips her soul and lays it at my feet - which is hardcore considering my blind ass might step on it or trip over it. Point is she has to be vulnerabel and be comfortable being vulnerable with me, not in the way some folk get when they fart, belch, and snort in front of each other. That shit aint cute at all. And not in the way when folk be changing their tampons without closing the door, or hanging out their regulars to dry all out in the open - not that she should hide them, but dammit, have some courtesy and keep them out of my sight. I mean vulnerable in the way women will not confess that they are tortured with restraint whenever you come near them, and they writhe in agony, creaming their pants while attemting to keep their composure everytime you call their name.

I used to have it like that, but I was too stupid and naive to capitalize off of it when I did, and now that I don't... it can be fucking depressing.