Memory Leak: (Cheesebreads)
or, "A Colon Nightmare"
This is my 187th post on the 36th anniversary of the marriage my parents ended 22 years ago and 1,000,000,000 (more) things to say: I'll begin with where I begin: clinging to the thread that hangs from your sleeve: I, your bombed-out lover, your eager seeker. And I know you want to cut it off or weave it in because the prickly, little thorns and sharp, tiny teeth of this place but it ties me to you and leads you to me. Devils want: souls and zombies want: brains and spiders want: corners and my primitive words: match my primitive heart. Some words are just so hard to say. The word of the day: Predilection.
Fall's coming, I can feel it in my bones and how many roasts should I make? I never had a religious thought in my life until that night, that Fall, in that passenger seat, genuflecting on the floorboard: taking it. I warned you that if you did that, that would happen. And I'm not some modern, Western Vala: I just know my limits. That if a person like you were to stick your hands down the pants of a person like me: well, we are fucking. And passing notes, out on a boat, beating back against the waves, borne back ceaselessly into the past. X will mark the spot where you left me at the shore but no one will ever know: that place inside me where you and my memories of you reside. I might as well have been a virgin. Whatever you're doing at whichever moment IS: doing it for me. And I will tangle you and wrestle you and fight you because you are a lonely neutrino, uncharged and passing, through that infinitesimally tinny, tiny place between us and you can see why I, necessarily, am so rapacious.
You can look forward to: Less than eight weeks until nine days of not driving around the bays and bayous looking for a place to fuck wet and moany me. But really, was it so terrible? Luxuriating around, watching me in nothing but your white tee shirt and my black bikini bottoms giving you a show in the lighted vanity mirror? Yes, I agree, Jade Beach and the Santa Lucias and the colder Pacific call. Now, to get off underneath a canopy of old growth. But I'll be waxed. And I'm always devoted.
And yes, sometimes I am tired, you terrorist-brained Criminal.
But my dying words will still be: it was only ever only you.
This is my 187th post on the 36th anniversary of the marriage my parents ended 22 years ago and 1,000,000,000 (more) things to say: I'll begin with where I begin: clinging to the thread that hangs from your sleeve: I, your bombed-out lover, your eager seeker. And I know you want to cut it off or weave it in because the prickly, little thorns and sharp, tiny teeth of this place but it ties me to you and leads you to me. Devils want: souls and zombies want: brains and spiders want: corners and my primitive words: match my primitive heart. Some words are just so hard to say. The word of the day: Predilection.
Fall's coming, I can feel it in my bones and how many roasts should I make? I never had a religious thought in my life until that night, that Fall, in that passenger seat, genuflecting on the floorboard: taking it. I warned you that if you did that, that would happen. And I'm not some modern, Western Vala: I just know my limits. That if a person like you were to stick your hands down the pants of a person like me: well, we are fucking. And passing notes, out on a boat, beating back against the waves, borne back ceaselessly into the past. X will mark the spot where you left me at the shore but no one will ever know: that place inside me where you and my memories of you reside. I might as well have been a virgin. Whatever you're doing at whichever moment IS: doing it for me. And I will tangle you and wrestle you and fight you because you are a lonely neutrino, uncharged and passing, through that infinitesimally tinny, tiny place between us and you can see why I, necessarily, am so rapacious.
You can look forward to: Less than eight weeks until nine days of not driving around the bays and bayous looking for a place to fuck wet and moany me. But really, was it so terrible? Luxuriating around, watching me in nothing but your white tee shirt and my black bikini bottoms giving you a show in the lighted vanity mirror? Yes, I agree, Jade Beach and the Santa Lucias and the colder Pacific call. Now, to get off underneath a canopy of old growth. But I'll be waxed. And I'm always devoted.
And yes, sometimes I am tired, you terrorist-brained Criminal.
But my dying words will still be: it was only ever only you.
posted by martyr in moderation at 7:30 AM
