Conversations like unsatisfied lovers, humming melodies around the truth, leaving dishes of promises over night to congeal into something a little more honest. All I can hope is for the best. I hold my head up, nod when it’s appropriate, smile like I don’t know precisely what will happen once the lights are off. I’m not a miracle. What they make of me isn’t even very real.
Violins sway, paint a pretty fabrication, a space built up like a palace of what they think I mean. Rescue, some sort of shift, a princess made of dragons who can take them away from the same scenarios they live day after day, shake up the routine, make it bearable, make it change. The foundations of fiction. Everything ideal, nothing unusual, nothing thought quite through. Such a shame.
I think to myself, this will be less, but at least for now we’ll be okay.
Unspoken over the breakfast table, “I thought you only dated teenage rape victims.” My fingertip tracing the rim of his coffee cup, bright as bells, as unmerciful as gravity. He looked down at his plate, pretending to contemplate, needing to look away, “What did she say? Was it something embarrassing?”
Accidentally, I let him kiss me. His mouth on mine is soothing. I feel undesignated, like I could be any human flesh, living outside myself. The hotel room surroundings help. I can feel his pulse through my arms, his heartbeat matches the anonymous drapes, the extra h’aich’s of his french accent. Next we’re in the shower, it’s too late to push him away, half-disgusted with my apathy. Unthinking, I’ve already taken off my clothes and asked him to turn down the cold.
Never Trust Robots
He sat at the foot of my bed like a one night stand, cigarette casually in hand, the solitary cherry a note of courage in the dark. We met as strangers twice, but never again. The freshly drawn line between the outside and this room has been too firmly pencilled in. Quest and conquest, though neither applies. Here, we are parallel. Watching him I know tomorrow he will trace over my body in memory and decide how much my warmth is worth. He will run, but not very far, only a month away. I can see why she must love him.
The Humans Are Dead.
August 6th is coming up quick. We are ditching my grandmother-blue velveteen sectional couch, would anyone like it?
I have begun something this week, wrapping my fingers in scarlet coloured string. A new slice of history, doomed to repeat, something that looks like broken water – a rusty puzzle that I can lay on a table, translucent pieces breathing slowly under my fingers, like a fever building and taking away the safest powers of language. My thoughts on the topic are surprisingly vague. I am being warmed by the next best thing. Unclarified affection.
The Boy left some things here I have yet to send back to Beverly Hills. A phone charger written like a nostalgic poem in my window, a pair of Armani shirts that I want to wear until they smell like my body instead of his. These stories are meant to hurt. This is what I tell myself as I stand over them, seconds from wanting to uselessly cry again. I can barely bring myself to touch these things, and I have made certain that it is someone else who fills the drawer I emptied for him when he was living here. (Walking past where we’ve been, the sidewalk is a staring contest.) Objects as a doorway, his voice over the phone describing the hot mathematical arc of Los Angeles traffic, apologizing for missing my birthday. I am caught imagining the shape of his body as he stands at the beach, remembering being in his apartment, naked on the porch except for a blanket, and us, the pictures we took at the airport, reaching out goodbye, the most honest portraits I have ever seen.
Social Suicide, our favourite UK tailors, have an interview with PingMag.
She stood in front of me with a rainbow of metal studded hair-bands on her metal studded belt, looking like a young crow clone of a first nations girl I used to know. Long dark hair, silver printed t-shirt, short denim skirt. Too young for me to watch. I almost said Hello. She swayed with the bus and got off at the Skytrain, oblivious, leaving me to my borrowed Pynchon, a fictional account of WW2, thick as if the paper had been dropped repeatedly in water and dried without care.