silly scrumptious

today i was with my chicorina by a river. we gave each other books for christmas and wrote silly scrumptious things in the covers, and kneaded each other's backs for a bit. there was an epileptic worm on a twig of grass and two men fishing. we added the skin of an avocado and a wrung-dry lime to the wood-grain water, left some crumbs in the lawn, and went for chocolate coffee in a haunt.

i have my own personal lacan. what i don't like is how he dismantles me. we had a fight last night. an epic one, drawing deep on past sorrows, a too-late courage, a day-old sadness. afterwards i was wrung out, sick, laid out in all my component parts for me to put back together, again. i hate how he dissembles me. i just want to be whole. silly. and scrumptious. to wear umbrellas in my hair and cobwebs on my cheeks and know, from hour to hour, day to day, that i will stay that way, and not be broken, not have to reconstruct myself, once more and again, and again.

elegant/outrageous

it's a fine line that i like to tread.

hurt/healed

so now that our venom is spent, now that our weeks have condensed
and distilled two sets of tears;
now that we've peeled and hurt, hurt and healed,
and i've learned a new horror;
i think little has changed, and i don't know whether to be comforted, or afraid.