I’m listening to the Violent Femmes and wondering how a supermoon can change a relationship. I’m thinking about how I’ve never been dancing–no one’s ever asked me to dance. And this is the time I should go and dance. I should go and not care that I’m alone.
I don’t know why I almost cried when my lover said he didn’t like dancing. My mother used to dance forever with me. In a living room with oak that melted like the barn my father burnt down, probably for the insurance money. It was the happiest memory I have of my youth.
I think my favorite lines are “just a come on from the whores on 7th avenue. I do declare I was so lonesome, I took some comfort there.”
How will I live on my own if I don’t work? How will I be a good human if I have no money or opportunities?
Two stink bugs on the window to the right of me–they’ve found each other.
This is poetry. This is tension, and I love this. Sex and drugs. What more could an angst-ridden teen want? It’s kind of scary, all the drugs and the neighbor who beats his wife. But it’s so beautiful. I ache when I hear these words.
I feel too much, don’t I? It bubbles up inside me and I must cut it out.