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mood |
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garbage, I can't-- |
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music |
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clipclopclipclop |
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He doesn't even know it. He walks down the sidewalk with his shoulders held back and his head held high and he doesn't realize what he does. Women do double-takes and men become insecure, and they can't help it. Of course not. He exudes sexuality and masculinity and everyone wants to be him, or be with him, or be on him, or be near him, or be --- him. I try to breath when I past him, but I smell him and he intoxicates me. He fills my nose, my lungs, my heart and my blood and I feel like I'm boiling from the inside out, like I'll develop blisters from him and I haven't even spoken to him, like I'll fall to the ground at his feet, his muddy feet, his godly feet, his bow-down-and-worship-my feet. So I keep walking, I ignore him, and the women around him fawn and fall and faux foes flaunt and forfeit and I can't even imagine.
I don't need you. I don't need you to become me, and that means, I think, there's something underlying. Strong, individual, feminist, etc., etc., they're words I hear on a regular basis and I don't know what to do with them so I shovel them in, I eat them with my breakfast, I breath them with my sighs, and I shower in them, warm and comforting, in the mornings, when my head touches the ceiling and I have to bend down to grab the shampoo. There isn't enough room for those nifty little shelves, and I wonder why I never thought to build them. I'm awful at building things, I realize one morning when I'm bending for the soap and it slips from my hands. I hold on to them for a second and then drop them, lost, gone, drained, swirling, like a drop of food coloring down the drain in a cyclone of milk. It's red and painful and I feel myself aching, but I don't know what for. Something inexplicable, something to be endured, another test, another try, another--.
The back of my throat burns and I always make a face. I'm not stoic. Just because I declare myself unfeeling doesn't mean I am. Just because I decide I'm distant doesn't mean I'm gone. My own intuition gets fucked up and thrown off track as often as anything, and I can't focus enough to finish a sentence. That sentence, particularly, it paused in the middle and I don't remember where I was going. What is the problem here? Could it be the fact that you, a man on the street, has distracted me so thoroughly that I can't complete my thoughts? Or maybe it's the Smirnoff, the blessed intoxication, the floating and the light-headedness that accompanies my deliriousness, something about the fact that I intentionally cloud my senses has got to have an alternate meaning to it.
Anyway, I refuse to objectify myself, to turn into a guinea pig, and I think somehow that maybe I should think about something else, but every time I start to think about scissors or a bottle cap I'm returned to You. I wonder how that happens. Scissors equal cutting equals line equals cement equals sidewalk equals You; bottle cap equals soda equals machine equals storeside equals sidewalk equals You. It's frustrating, and, I want to hurt you, to hit you, to punch at your guts and tip you over, to turn you into something, but for you to fight against it, to turn yourSELF into something, to be who you are, to tell me who you are, to show me who you are.
I want to taste who you are, until I pass you and I see how you don't even have a tongue. Or do you and it's hidden? I'm not sure. I don't think you have a tongue, I think you want to turn me away, and I think I'm alright with that. I think I'd turn away on my own, down another block, another street, another process repeated, onetwothree and again, and I'd find someone like you, who looked like or acted like or smelled like or performed like you do and then I'd tap tap tap myself into the front row and watch, smiling, pleased, until you disappeared behind the curtain nevertobeseenagain.
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