e-stranged

Tidings, tidings, tidings, go:

This isn't a revival. This isn't a conquest. This isn't a rubber bracelet campaign. This isn't an intervention. Knock knock. Who's there? Teenage hopes alive and at your door.

I should destroy this venue like an old walled city whose purpose has been served but remains as a curiosity, a spectacle; a testament to lawless times where an unlicensed dentist could yank teeth in privacy. But I will not/cannot because ... I am sentimental.

Because I am a wife. And I got everything I wanted. Except, for once, being something that someone doesn't regret.

It is my fault you never learned what I could see: that I am a fatherless mother who bears fatherless daughters; but it is far less exotic than it ever seemed before, so go on and self-fulfill your prophesy and I will even take the long way home to buy you some time. Because, sometimes, you need awhile. With the lights out. The television on. Don't leave me.

Hook me up; because I like to get hooked.

The saddest things are brief and subliminal.

My heaven is never enough.

For you.

You know who you are.

Vehicular multiplicity changes nothing and who are you fucking kidding? Things will remain exactly as they are today and have been for one hundred years, maybe more, because bad girls are always bad girls and Adam was the one who bit the apple first but no one cares (to remember) anymore. There are so many things in this world that I will never be. Two-dimensional, for example. Smart, for another. One in three million, but only in a Wikipedia article. An unofficial grief belies an officially-sponsored face and I tire of taking off my glasses so that I don't have to watch you watch me react. And what is it, really, that occupies the space between a nut and the whisper of intimacy? Upon reflection, I think that there is nothing there and I had the wrong idea all along. But I have never minded, especially, being lied to or tricked. And I always was a fan of music that made me think it was solving my problems. My best friend was a butcher and he had sixteen knives and he always took the time to speak with me and I liked him for that.

One time, I fell through the street. Fell down an open man hole. While I was hitting the sides on the way down, I was having this conversation with myself:

Can I get there this way?
Yeah, I think so.
Can I get there this way?
Yeah, I think so.
Can I get there this way?
Can I get there this way?
Can I get there this way?
Can I get there this way?

You don't write any more because you don't need to. Just like with everything else.