there are two ways to interpret this.
- + Morning
“I think I’m going to give up peanut butter for Lent,” I say. You are sitting on the counter, and your hair looks like a robin’s nest or maybe like Medusa. “It’s a b***h to clean off the dishes anyways.” You nod politely, and say, "Today I think I’ll play hookie. Maybe I’ll take a cab to the city pretend to be a college student with lots of money spend. I’ll go into Abercrombie and hide behind the mannequins, growling at customers until they kick me out."
You smile, and I scrape peanut butter off a plate with my fingernails. There is a safety pin in your hand and you are stabbing it through the skin of your fingertips.
You don't hide your masochism any more.
Does that mean you love me?
- + Afternoon
“My brother always said that I would never get a boyfriend. He said boys wouldn’t like me because of the way I talked. He said I had some kind of disease that makes me vomit words like rubbish, and he said that no one wants a girl who can’t stay on one subject for more than thirty seconds.” You do not have anything to say in response. You have always been the quiet type. I need to hear my voice. I need it to know I’m alive.
You are biting your lip, tearing off the skin with your teeth.
- + Night
Tonight you taste the way I feel. Like mint chocolate chip ice cream and leftover spaghetti and bloody lips. You taste like the time I went to fair with my first real boyfriend, and he dumped me as we got off the ferris wheel, because he said if I started crying on that, there was no way I'd be able to take it as rough as he liked it. I rode that ride where they raise you up twenty stories and then plummet you to the ground. I rode it until they packed up and left the city. I wanted them to pack me up with them. Pack me up like a suitcase and skip town. I thought, I could be the sad clown. The one who jumps off the Tilt-a-Whirl into the screaming crowd.
You taste like that.
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