There’s a house across the river*

Watch me dig this moat, and complain it is too wide, too deep.

Watch me fall down the rabbithole of this impossible desire: this man who is disappearing even as he comes into view.

Watch me focus on this schedule, these trivialities, these hospital corners; watch me try to convince myself I can conquer my libido with this keyboard.

Watch me stay in bed, scripting sex scenes for imaginary selves with more confidence than I had even way back before anyone ever called me bitch, deluded, unfuckable, fucked.

Watch me calm myself with lists, and lists of the lists. Watch me check the locks again. Watch me tell myself I dunk the tea bag 100 times because my great-grandmother told me to, and not because I believe it will encourage the universe to reshape itself around my want.

Watch me wish I could tell this woman I am fine and she is fine and everything is fine and it will all go on and it will all pass and her/my/our/their implosion will not be the end of anything.

Watch me build this fire and leave all the windows open. How else stay cool? How else escape?

Watch me choose the seat closest to the door. Watch me push my back against the wall.

Watch me slamthisdoorstampthisfootswearscreamslapthisface. So? I’ve watched more than one man put his fist through more than one wall.

Watch me shoulder this spade; watch me call it a shield.


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