Friday, April 21, 2017


If you can find it, you deserve some kind of Pulitzer Prize.
If you can dig deep enough to find it.

The Parisian woman doesn't hide.
But she also won't stupidly put it all on the shelf,
things a child can't understand.
It's all in the open,
hiding beneath layer upon layer of flesh,
at the same time.

Why do you care?
You don't feel like I'm giving you the real me?
Maybe if you make yourself a little safer, more walls will come down.
More clothes.

But maybe not. I'm not as invested as I once was.

I'm still trying to find myself.
The Parisian woman doesn't really care all that much anymore.

The way everything fits together is of little importance.
She's more interested in the feel of things, than their shape.
And you're too cautious and afraid to interest her now.
There's no such thing as metered impulse...even though you seem to want this to be a thing.
The woman wants you to be a little more reckless,
just reckless enough to bite her inner thighs and to kiss her, while you say aloud that you shouldn't be...shouldn't be..but have to. Can't help yourself. Can't stand not to, God...fuck,have to. As you kiss her up against a wall somewhere in a crappy part of town.

But you never do.

The only way you'll find it is if you ask.
And I'm Parisian,
so I'm never gonna tell.

Well,Parisian enough to keep secrets.


Memory #22

He is everything to me, everything. Laying beneath a lemon tree in the grass, his hands explore my skin, his soft lips cover me with light kisses, which feel like petal blossoms. "I was scared you'd die, baby." He says to me. "What else is new?" I say with a half-smile. Up until this point the half-smile has been my way of being non-committal, but today I'm legitimately exhausted. My body is swollen and tired. I love the way his eyes glisten in the sunlight. The grey patches of hair make him look like a wolf and his wicked smile make him look so primal-- I love it.

"I look such a hot mess," I say. He reaches for my hand and gives it a squeeze. "I think you look more beautiful than ever," he says. "I think you look more beautiful than ever?" I repeat-- making his comment into a question with a raised eyebrow. "Wow. I'm impressed." I say, as I reach over and plant a soft little peck on his lips."You're sweet," I whisper. When I try and pull away, he reaches around to the back of my head and pulls me in deeper. "I have cramps," I say as I lay my head back down on his chest, reminding him that it's that time of month. "Oh, that's right," he says remembering, a little saddened. "I missed you. Next time I won't go. I'll send someone else."

"Are we really going to that thing?" I ask, referencing a trip. "Do you feel up to it?" He asks. I look down at my tattoo and comment that it's a certain letter of the alphabet, a letter which has come to represent a semi-frustrating relationship, which is decidedly too American for how Puritanical it has become. He catches me looking at the tattoo and touches my nose with the tip of a flower."I love seeing you in that dress," he says, flashing another wicked smile. I respond with my same tired non-committal smile. "The meds have my body looking a mess," I say, touching my thighs. "Nope," he says, kissing me a second time.

I lay back on his chest and he squeezes me and kisses my forehead."Can we get an ice-cream?" I ask, sounding childish. He kisses my forehead again. "After we get the book, we will. No problem."

The book is under the bed, back by some photographs that have collected dust. We're laughing into two cups of tea. He smells fresh, like laundry detergent. I like how clean his socks always are. I'll wear the same pair over and over and over. "I need a shower. You wanna take a shower with me?" He says, taking my hand before waiting for my answer.

Later, he's whispering, "I love you," into my ear over and over so so sweetly. The hot water makes my body feel relaxed and the world is just the feel of his soft skin and the knowledge that he loves me.

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