I will be good and be alright and be fine with a positive connotation and two chewed off hangnails

10.26

--after you asked to stop--the break (a forever kind) in our friendship--in everything I read there was a villain, and in every villain, there I was. 

 *  

11.17

--this week I cringed, I dunked my ego in a puddle of two to three pages, of which I only retained the words, too wordy at times. And the only air of scoff in my throat is a question, "is that even a word" and then a quick seven pokes to unlock my password and begin hiding in a blue-grey site, where i'm not the only one deprived of happiness, drive, and rational thoughts about being too wordy--

*
11.21

to the girls with short hair, and buds who go by they/them/their, and friends who stayed in touch whilst our arms were stuck in different time zones, and the sun hit different sides of our faces when waking up-you are the ones I miss, (read: missing out) go back to when we first met, go back to the texts that bubble up like smiles and sweet nothings that drop fresh butterflies in your stomach, the kind so devoid of winter, and sameness, and being stuck inside alone with microwaved rice and something green--or maybe orange? and re-runs of a show that makes you sigh

--go back to heady weekend ideas you string the days along with, not waiting, merely building up friday feelings, go  back to me being accountable, and fast forward to a dry excuse, fast forward to a night in the dark, with the body count of >one, fast forward to the letters without return addresses, and the fake dropping of calls and presses of ignore.

 then flash back to a time where avoidance ran into you at the store, in a town of sewn up dresses and patched knit sweaters and population of 600, fast forward to me saying sorry, and apprehensively waiting for you to do the next, the plan, the rain check, the hands gently picking at a hangnail that was nestled into the crack between chipped nail polish and a soft-blood-filled finger, hanging as well onto the intonation of what if--knowing i'll let you down again.
*
11.4

she has short bl*nde hair. is always trying and trying and trying at her art pieces and her essays and the relationships that drift into sewers and ones that come up short on her growing arms. she is movement; she could brush by my shoulder sleeve and it would sting. i dream of her kissing a part of my chemical makeup that needs a hint, a mistake of nutmeg that turns a dish into awe-asking people wondering, 'what did you do to this?--it's amazing' and how each time the staleness of a 2 month or one year mark would not cross my frontal cortex because of how electric it would be, despite the mixed up wires and popped outlets and lack of rugs! i don't just want to hold hands, i want to make remind them of things in that sweet coddling way, and run from my place to their place trying to find a new tree, an intersection, a point we both cross. come together. i want to steal some of their food at dinner, without shaky hands or fear of getting yelled at, with the question 'sooo? don't you love it?' and the faltering vocal chords of me not loving it is why i cannot begin to tell them, i play the lonely paintbrush that won't get used until found in a thrift store by a lady in orange.

eat a cookie,

cbnl