Fixing things is an expression of creativity. In a consumerist world, we say goodbye to such practical resourcefulness.
Ever noticed that small children’s nice shoes are left behind at the beach, the park, dropped at the mall? Growing up just means to get better at taking care of ourselves than our parents were.
Sex is just an excuse to get naked.
3 beers under my arm. A single tablet left of a sheet of six in the back pocket of my tight, black jeans. A tiny baby syringe. What?
He chews on the leg of a chicken carcass, or lamb, or something, then throws it in the general direction of the ocean. He likes films, art; he uses the term pseudo-hippy. I sit in my silence, inside. He wants to reach in, he grabs at my hood, my hair, he puts his greasy face in mine.
Let me love your body, he says.
I had jumped on his bed, frustrated. Here because I wanted attention.
Now sitting in the car, I smell like an animal.
I’m a clear glass house on a hill, And I’ll fall in love with whoever of you can see me. I’m in love with you all.
The windows become chipped and shattered from rocks which ricocheted. I’m not sure if I threw stones.
I’m crying, and the windows are fogging up. The air is humid, misty, clammy. I’d like for you to see me now, because the air is chill. I’d like to be clear and radiant outwards, rather than dissolving in, deserted and dark; where once the hill felt elevated, it now stands lonely.
Until the sun rises again, evaporates the condensation in patches until the air is dry. Until a gentle wind rustles from the ground cover up, even if its still a little desolate, new sprigs will spring. Eventually, inevitably.