Akimbo
It takes a new kind of idiot to permit oneself not to love. It seemed that once before there was a mutual desire to look for it, ask for it, to be for it. It seemed rather everyone had a too-full cup balanced precariously on the center of their heads and they all ran around on the ends of their toes knowing it was going to fall and just hoping to collide into someone so it would at least land on something, someone, and not be wasted, absorbed, evaporated. I don’t know where those fucking cups went. Empty heads because there wasn’t something on them instead of in them. These days there isn’t enough on them. ‘These days’ is an awful expression to use, it makes me old and I probably do that on purpose because it would be better to be old and alone, rather than just alone with no paper skin as an excuse. When it’s too hot under the blankets, we kick them off. Perhaps the people are afraid of sweat. Sweat ruins outfits and photos and is rumored to discourage proximity as well as wandering eyes. We know we sweat and we’re ashamed of it and we push people away when they make us sweat, because it would be disgusting if we happened to rub our sweat on them, and they’d think so too. If we keep our distance everyone looks nice. No friction. Room for breezes and light gusts of I don’t care’s, you’re prettier from a distance. All about the angle. Drop to your knees now, I don’t need to see your shoes. Take it all off maybe, I want to get at you. Not like that. I want to get at you. Not at your anatomy, like all those fleshy little tumblr posts romanticizing the slope of bones and the robust red of freshly pricked blood. I mean you, don’t you see. Those things about yourself you are so preoccupied with suppressing that you refuse to integrate them into who you are. I want you to put them on me, make me all the things you’d hate in yourself. Befriend them in me. Or don’t. I’m not your mother. But either way, we’ll exorcise the real you, and if we can’t tear each other we lack the ability to make each other feel.