it’s not even that much stuff. just two boxes. doesn’t feel like there’s room for it. i did this in ridgewood and bushwick, too. old me, maybe. doesn’t want it to be final. don’t sit. or, if you do, sit right on the edge.
oversharing again. too many outlets. conglomerated. every platform is text is pictures is video is streaming. not good for me. that’s part of me i’m giving away every time. telling myself to practice and not predict. don’t shred burn delete — that’s sidestepping. just sit for a second, not on the edge. sit back. fold your hands. this is okay. you are here.
he asked if i was a liberal again. if that was ‘an accurate statement’. i wanted to ask him if he voted for a failed businessman who brags about raping women. if that was ‘an accurate statement’. i got quiet instead. buried myself. said ‘i don’t think so’. they’re both so interested. they lower it into our conversations and leave it hanging there from the end of the crane. a mosquito in my ear. when we got off the phone i wrote seventeen lines about him. his cowardice. i didn’t write about her. i never do. oedipal? probably the other thing, the one that i can’t ever bring into focus. that she’s afraid of him and hides behind his opinions. pretends they are hers, too. i don’t miss that house. i don’t miss that state. i get closer and closer to pushing my chair away from the table with every phone call. every phone call gets further apart. i don’t care one way or the other.
read the graveyard blog last night. the whole thing. so optimistic. i didn’t believe any of it, i don’t think. a hostage negotiation with myself. captor and victim all at once. i was so far away from everything. hovering outside the window of every room. watching from the ceiling while i practiced ‘yes, and’. sitting one desk to the right while i fumbled through questions about descartes. apologetic, some of it. i believed all of that, i think. glad to have outgrown it. not in the kid —> adult way, unless we’re talking about the part of me you don’t see.
the gym felt good. felt good to be judged. to be the smallest. to hurt. i walked in and signed up. you have weights here? okay. he asked me about my goals. to gain weight, i said. too much product in his hair. shirt a size too small. he tried to make small talk about ohio after he punched my phone number in. the browns. cincinnati. you have weights here? okay. my shoulders still scream at me. they knock and scrape and hesitate. i hear them grind through the deltoid, through the trapezius and the infraspinatus, the only muscles i can ever get to grow. except for my legs, which no woman is interested in. my elbow gets hot and i feel the ligament snap and bend from the up and down. i let it burn. doing pushups in front of the mirror so i can watch my abdomen hang beneath me, so i can be unsatisfied with my body. in front of the mirror so i can look myself in the eye while i shake under the weight of
i take my shirt off for my last few sets of planks. scars on my back, on display for the room. on display for me. so i can be unsatisfied with my skin. i’m probably on a snapchat story somewhere. good for them.