Do you remember me? Probably not. We only met once. I thought you were nice, helpful. I didn’t know then that I would let you burn a hole into my brain, tugging at the synapses (a lurch of the nerves, gut, heart). That you would come to me in dreams, silent. That I would become sick and supple in your hold.
We are not so different, we two, except that I wish I could be more like you. Maybe you would think the same thing about me. Maybe you are doing the same thing, following.
I see you are Beautiful, intelligent, caring, thoughtful, interesting, graceful, above all else (and I do so yearn for grace). Maybe it’s only your words, your images. The impression you make.
I should let you make a graceful impression, instead of a stinging welt: “i should stop comparing myself to other people.”
I’m not trimming my bangs, still haven’t cut my hair.
I don’t eat much; it doesn’t much interest me.
I am running.
I don’t have much to say, suddenly drawn to brevity, though my skull is swimming with thoughts, words and images coursing through my veins like paint thinner, poison pumped from a broken heart.
Just two this time, both of which speak to my recent experiences, surprisingly.
“And it’s not that I’m lying, not that the chicken roasting doesn’t smell like home, that the cat purring on the kitchen counter doesn’t sound like comfort, that my husband’s embrace doesn’t feel like love. It’s not that at all. It’s just that the world was feeling bigger to me, and here it begins to seem small, sometimes.”
“I speak in the sparkling voice I’ve found myself employing since I arrived in Argentina, the flirtatious, humorous tone of an American Dame. Traveling by myself is so far proving to be rather like playing dress-up. No one here knows anything about me, so I can be anyone I want.”