it's raining again outside and i am not sure whether or not i should go to the post office, and post that letter to you, i even made sure i got your address right, picked a nice little envelope.
it's something like pleasance, something like a train wreck, a horrific plane crash with no survivors, all twisted metal and you can't even make out where a mangled something could have been where a body was, or is. maybe it's like how all the colours are all swirled into a representation of, how earth is from up way high. like when you're flying and everything slowly takes on a cartoon-like certainty, the world becomes a doll-house, i guess then, we're all made out of porcelain. please don't break, when i tell you this. when i say it.
when you lay down, do your eyes roll back into your head? sometimes i think they might, cold distant marbles they are. i wish i were playing on the cement on the street with friends and lots and lots of marbles, i wonder who'd win. it would be so exciting. we'd scuff our knees dry white along the grey and pretend part of the foot path rubbed onto us and we were turning into the ground long before it ever sought to reclaim us.
and i would get a big bucket of water and pour it all over your head, and in your mouth i would put a bright shining rock, that i keep in my pocket for warmth and for luck, and you would have all my insecurities locked up inside, behind your teeth, holidaying on your tongue, and i would be free. and then i could laugh again, especially at you, all ridiculous trying to speak with your mouth full of me.
we'll pretend it's a seed, kind of like a baby, but not, more like a plant, a flower, a vine that will ensnare you, rupture you through your eye sockets and your ear drums and burst blossoms through your little teeth, out through your nostrils, and your out-splayed hands would hold up trellises, and you would drip, heavy with the burden of bloom. kissed lovingly with the perfume of uncertainties.
holding this growth of me, for me, for a time until the winter comes on in and blows you back to a dream of spring.
honey, you know i can buy you at any time of the year and your price is usually the same, unless some natural disaster pushes your price up a few cents and i will not notice. no i will not notice you, even though i taste you every morning on my cereal, apart from those sometimes when i forget and beep beep hurry hurry up.
this sound of rain is full in my ears like a chiding mother. my mind tells me to ignore it, stop that deep rumbling want inside of me to run out into it, and let my hair drip today down into my shoes. weather on my clothes, on my skin, on my tongue, weather i will be in, not be behind. closed doors, shut windows, blank walls, face, disks.
stop surrendering. stop it, just stop it. i will have a conversation with myself. and take a fist, hold it tight, loosen it, stare intently, feverishly, crazily at my palm, at my vein-work, at my fingerprints and nails, i will memorise, and forget instantaneously. i will make another fist. i will hold my head. i will loosen my wrist, my face, my hand, and slap myself in the face in the mouth. in the ear, because that hurts like a first fuck.
but i don't think i'll stop, i don't think i can make me, maybe not just yet.