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when you have nights like those, anomalies where all the stars defer, and you are not faking, not even a little, the polite thing is to never mention it again.
I have said goodbye enough times to know that departure has a way of gilding what are, at best, slow quotidian deaths, but still each time I think of everything I will lose.
This is something I want to tell Eric, but because of our gaping economic disparity, I don’t know how to express myself without it seeming like I’m asking for help.
the men who line the street remind me that technically yes, I do have a pussy, and that I will live with the terror of protecting it for the rest of my life.
the comfort of audience subjectivity pretty much null when the audience is everyone, and everyone has decided, subjectively, that the art is bad.
He was afraid of her like I would one day be afraid of him, because children, like dogs, are attuned to the signs of an impending storm.
I lie in bed and wonder how women don’t feel it, the exact moment their bodies begin to create.
It occurs to me that maybe he is not interesting and is just older than me, someone who has blown through his budget for failure and landed on the other side with a 401(k).
I think of all the gods I have made out of feeble men.
God is not for women. He is for the fruit. He makes you want and he makes you wicked, and while you sleep, he plants a seed in your womb that will be born just to die.
The women in my family maybe should not have been mothers. This is not so much a judgment as a fact. They were dying inside their own bodies, and now all these dead components are my inheritance.
I’ve made my own hunger into a practice, made everyone who passes through my life subject to a close and inappropriate reading that occasionally finds its way, often insufficiently, into paint. And when I am alone with myself, this is what I am waiting for someone to do to me, with merciless, deliberate hands, to put me down onto the canvas so that when I’m gone, there will be a record, proof that I was here.
