One

You find solace and dwelling in people who
Smooth Grandma's antique tablecloth
Over your ever-accumulating trunk of transgressions.

That trunk that rides on your beautiful back.

The sun makes its lock gleam in your eyes every morning.
That's when you cry, and I'm not guessing because
That's what you told me,
Assuming not every intimate word out of your mouth is a lie.

Your vagrancy is short,
For her homely face and finite mind
Suit your need to assert authority and
Satisfy your narcissism.
Neither her love, her mind, nor her beauty
Can threaten your preference for
Cheap and easy.

So your innate and unmatched charm
Sweep her.
You hurl the hefty trunk to its new home on her floor.
You collapse into her bed and
Lose your head.

New fades into routine.
Your only possession eventually to blurs into the wall.
Occasionally, she lifts the lace that conceals your pain
- The pain given and taken -
And adds to your collection.
Even more rare, you stir in your bed
With some menacing feeling you can't seem to shake.

Once you spoke, "How do you tell if you're happy?"

we're all such masochists.

fuck all of it. is loss exactly that? does it mean i should lose the memories and the love and whatever the fuck else i keep? forget all of it? free myself of it? did i hate to watch eternal sunshine because i knew it was real and an experience i never wanted to confront?

just pretend you've never been in love. pretend you've never even wanted to. this might be the only thing you can do to survive. your heart is much too sick otherwise. forget about it.

love material things. love experiences. forget companionship. forget passion. forget romance. forget intensity. forget trust. forget love. forget every single male you thought was worth anything.

"O, teach me how i should forget to think"