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from a free write

to a musician i might be working with. we have been sort of sharing energy and building up creative momentum. it's nice. i'm making this girls only.


..in the meantime, a free-write.


sometimes I am like a warm room with a drafty window. It feels good but makes you sick.

it is true that men have transcended themselves expressing their love after having been with me. It's as though my body wakes some continent of emotion and memory. Two giant ravens stare down from the tree of my body and men gladly hang themselves upside down.

I fright at small noises. I'm scared of thunder and lightning. At a loud noise I will crouch, ready to fight, or run. It bears a resemblance to post traumatic stress disorder because that's what it is.

and men love a broken woman-- one who is strong and bright and needs protection. sad part is, I do. I had pneumonia three times as a kid. I seizure. I need routines....and I have fashioned for myself the identity of caretaker, from an early age. If I don't have a man (or, when single, friends) to cook for, to make tea for, then I will get up and stand aimlessly, my hands bouncing at my sides like clipped wings.

so back to our drafty window simile-- the glow of my love enfolds people-- lulls them into sleepiness-- while the cold air winds around their neck. Invariably they wake up choked out.

Because, being changed forever by the love of a woman may be brilliant but also makes you older. corroded. vulnerable to the elements. I don't know quite what I'm saying anymore, only that love as I have known it is always as cold as it is warm. always there is great pain to accompany the joy. This is no kind of revelation. This is a well known fact about love.

so how do people make years go by in the company of one another? I haven't brought myself to love a man who didn't live in another country or state now for years, because when I'm together with someone more than sporadically, the balance seems to tilt to searing hot and devastating. I just want to make the tea, but somehow my body betrays me, and when men are close they lose their minds.

someday I will be old, and I will make people lose their minds in other ways. but this is my youth-- these are my ripe years, my June-- and I want to not wither on the damn vine.

I need to change. Quiet the flame of my body and take some tape to the ill-fitted frame of my psyche...

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Eddie the Squirrel
g_r_u_b
Get Rid of Ugly Boys

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