is to be read from the beginning, as most things are.


drown kittens and sick puppies.

or dogs,

my memory fades.

and the more we talk civilly about our separation, the more solitude i find.
go find yourself, because i cannot do the same unless you're the one leaving. it wouldn't follow the rules of gender. or whichever they happen to be.

or the rules governing us.

and you imagined jealousy, you imagined inconsistency out of nothing.

[it's all Shakespearean].. and i hate it.

you know where it really grows out of, but you chose to find it elsewhere. in a name and not in body. in a 'john thomas' and not in actuality.

if i knew who he was, i would tell you. or maybe not. or maybe not.

at this moment, i could be with you. at this moment i could stay. at this moment you give me what i need.

but there's always this grinding thought. this imagined community. this feeling..

that i could take more chances, but i wouldn't.

i breathe in what you're exhaling. you've followed all the rules, you've promoted myself. told me 'go for it'. 'do it'. 'i'm supportive'.
and it's all true but still..

who am i?

and where is this all leading..

i used to think i was made for something grand. something bigger than this town, than the oak's that follow me.
i used to think that i would be different than the ghosts lingering in the moss or the homes or the memories hanging desperately to my ankle.
i used to think i could make something, not a selfless something, but a gratifying, almost sexual, response.

and i dreamed of kielbasa fingers, of shaking trains, of complete abandonment of this magnetic town.

. i still feel it in me . although muted . and i cannot silence the urge toward movement .

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