Marie

“It was good for a while, being empty. I didn’t hurt anymore. But as time went on, it was like I could hear myself from far away, begging for permission to come back.”

“She has so many knots in her hair because we are desperate in our fucking. Maybe desperate is not the right word. Think: necessary. Think: éclat. Think the opposite of mediocre and then continue to think that until you grow bored. She is always digging, I am always grabbing, and there is probably something else missing here. When I think about her past, I think about space and how both of them make no sense to me. They are both so big, and I have never slept in a house that large. I get tired just thinking about starting another poem. I write in my journal I could talk about orgasms all day. It is hard to be happy without beer. I am working on my stereotypes. My favorite sitcoms are the ones with the pretty wives, the heavy husbands who wear uniforms to work. Is anyone else concerned about the space around their cuticles? If marijuana is a gateway drug, then what is a blowjob? It is hard to be happy when the best part of your day is agreeing with the ambivalent weather. I like it when married women don’t look at me. Sturdy beds are never overrated. I’ve wanted to use this line for months: Where did all of the wedding rings come from? If people paid to read my poems, I would pay someone to write me better poems. There is only one woman I want to fuck, and that scares the shit out of me.”

Person: You always so quiet

“I don’t want to “just forget him”. I want to erase him from my story, like a snake shedding a skin that no longer fits.”

the thought of me having sex: nice