A mother tells you lots of things:
To brush your hair
To iron your clothes
To never smoke
To follow the rules
and sometimes she forgets to tell you to stay away from those who don’t
He left me for a girl twenty years my junior. She left him for our son.
Hammer. Crayons. Iron. Wax Paper. Grater. There was so much of this project that wasn’t safe for little fingers and toes. The kids collected the rejects: the dirty-wrappered, warped-wax, faded-colored, untipped, passed-over colored wonders. They brought them in to give birth to something new. The teacher handed out the perfect autumn leaf papers, stencil traced and stencil cut. She took their bags of crayons and ironed them in wax paper sandwiches. The smell was heady. When they put it all together each child taped their project up to the window. She missed the old crayons and the way they felt between her hands (or when the teacher wasn’t looking) between her teeth. She missed how some stood proud and stark naked and how others persisted in clinging to their ripped labels. She felt sad watching the light shimmer around the heavy brown paper. The redorangeyellowburntcrimsongoldpoppy graveyards they had so proudly created. Why were they trying so hard to make them all into identical copies of ‘something better’. She starred at the windows all through recess- unable to ask was she the only one who knew how beautiful they had been on their own?
If they stuffed you in a microwave would it cook you from the inside out? I can feel my brain burning at 103. Degrees. My throat claws like there’s something living inside it. I can’t eat. Because of me? Because of you? Maybe it’s only the flu. The doctor tells me cough medicine is a gimmick: that what they put in that can only make you worse, not better. My mother always warned me not to trust things with funny names. I thought she meant the French boy, from summer camp. She thought she meant ingredients you couldn’t pronounce. That’s when I knew that men and food were interchangeable. In a relationship with Ruben, in a relationship with Reuben on Rye. For a while I thought I’d made my choice, but another bowl of chicken soup and I might be pushed back to the men’s side.
I have been absent from the Tumblr community for 4 months, 2 weeks and a handful of hours. That is approximately one half the gestation period of the typical female homo sapien. But no, I’m not pregnant. In the first few weeks I lost about half my followers. I guess in the end the math works out and its a wash. For those of you who have stuck it out, thank you. Perhaps you actually read my posts and were waiting out my return. Who am I kidding, you probably just don’t go through your followed tumblr list and cleanse it every week. That’s cool too. For whatever reason, this is showing up on your dashboard. I’m Back.
“Like”-> “Comment”-> “Wall Post”-> “Chat”. Virtual foreplay.
I want to be the first thing you do in the morning and the last thing you do at night
I can never be more than what my mind can fathom.