The Young Domestic

The air mattress and I twinge in defeat when his feet hit the floor. I’m awake now though my eyes wouldn’t know it. He’s out the door and into another. I hear his morning ritual, his nausea. His stomach wretches and my heart responds. He gets his sea legs and bursts back into the room letting the door slam wildly on the wall. I think of his mother - that’s coming out of his pocket. But he’s already on youtube because it’s morning and that means morning music. He lines up the same two songs we listen to every day and recites them with unadulterated enthusiasm. He pours coffee, lights a cigarette, and sits on the patio in a simultaneously comfortable and flamboyant fashion. Small-minded people attribute it to being French or gay, of which he’s neither, really. I sit across from him and drink him in as I fidget and try to look alluring. He loads the dishes, gives me tasks, and rewards himself with another cigarette. He puts on different clothes and shows me how to pull weeds in his mother’s garden while educating me on maintaining healthy plants. I try to look patient and interested, but it's hot in the sun and I want to kiss and touch and eat and watch tv and fuck again.

Fate

i see the man in you
every time you let me go
because you don't want the boy
to get ahead of himself.

Mantra

i honor myself
the way you do
preserved
still
the gift we both know
we'll relish in time

between friends

lee: why am i such a shitty lover? not sexually, emotionally.

me: you're not a shitty lover. you're a muse. they don't fall in love and they're wanted by everyone. they get bored easily. they're endlessly witty and beautiful and artistic. i am not a muse. i am a lover. you are a muse.

lee: thank you.

Me: just the truth sistergirl. we're all doomed to hurt.

lee: shit shit shit

me: i just wait for the next time i'm in someone's arms, and hope it makes me feel the way it should and not the way it shouldn't. ahha and hope that it doesn't leave. not the feeling (that isn't a mystery) but the person.

lee: i suck. i'm the one that leaves. every time. i'm a shitty person and i like to escape.

me: you are twenty-three years old. do what you like. do what you like till you die.

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"

H

so my last entry was supposed to be much shorter and these words were meant to be included, here it goes...

i have come to believe - out of lack of a better theory - that i can smell heroin on men. i have never witnessed anyone using this drug, i have never seen it. i wouldn't physically be able to recognize the smell from any other smell, let alone name it. so how does this make any sense? out of the five men i have ever wanted to love, four have encountered it. to my knowledge, this drug is not extremely common, no? i also hadn't acquired this information about any of them until quite after i desired them. okay, you might say that i am dangerously attracted to tragedy, and at that accusation i would whole-heartedly agree. i mean, really - there's nothing more romantic than sadness. it has been my life's aspiration to find a soul unlike mine that could emulate my need for restlessness and my fascination with personal tribulations...so that i could be a purity that he's always yearned for. something that is his alone. that reminds him to have faith in man. i want to ease his soul and i want him to stir mine.

but i can't let let this surprisingly large ratio be regarded as a mere coincidence! maybe the scientists have it right! maybe they know a thing or two, and are just being much too broad about the whole thing. our motives are on a biological level, i feel. and they vary greatly. but i still think i can smell H.