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Low fidelity. Little faith, perhaps? A boyfriend with two girlfriends. A mother with two lovers. A child with 3 parents. Or no, no. Why must cheating (is it really?) be cheating? What if both parties are compliant, what if? Must it be polyamory, or could it be something else. What if we all loved everyone, in every sense of the term. Maybe not every. Maybe, perhaps, we loved everyone in different ways, but still, still loved everyone. I love everyone. I love everyone I've ever met. Not that I can claim to have met all that many different people. Love.
The sun shines little flecks through the leafy green treetops. The porch is illuminated. The icy warmth and snowy heat devour my eyes. I hide under the canoe on the fence to avoid the melting, the melting under the direct sunlight as if I were a vampire even though I'm not it's fun to pretend. Don't you remember pretending, I remember pretending, playing family and being animals and dinosaurs and being a kid in the sand at the park. In the grass in the sand. In the sun and the snow and the leaves and everything in between. A kid.
It's on fire my finger's on fire an itchy dull fire. I scratch and scratch and nothing happens but it flames around and turns red. Blood rushes to it but not out. I have not bleed since they took my blood in vials tan vials with a needle and left a bruise near the other needle that turned red (also blood). That doesn't itch though just look gross or worse disgusting a disgust to those who spy upon it when I wear a tank top. I mustn't wear tank tops anymore. Too much exposure of my blood, I do think.
I could count. I still could count maybe. But not high, definitely not high, I forget the numbers the calculator stole them. The calculator keeps all my secrets. I told the calculator about the boy and the boys and the girl in the dream and me. Not about me. The calculator has me, it owns me, it owns my soul maybe if I had one. I hear a soul weighs two pounds but I think maybe my soul weighs more or less but two pounds just sounds wrong. The calculator is going to weigh my soul so I can know.
I hear them mumbling and bumbling and grumbling in the lunch line. "Not good." "Too much." "Not enough." Complaints all around, have your fill. I may have said this aloud, but the stares don't tell it could just be my hair but no, my hair isn't that strange. Is it me or them or psychology or sociology or should I maybe forget about that it happened four hours or four minutes ago. "Why not." "Why." So full of worthless questions that have simple or no answers why bother asking if you won't even stick around to heard the simple answer.
It is blue like a sapphire like the ocean reflecting through a diamond or off a mirror. The water hugs her lightly as she sinks but floats in the middle. Her naked form waves around as the orange fleck that she loves so so much threatens to fly away. She waves some more, her long legs caressing the soft water around her her wild hair blowing in the waves. Her eyes are open and I can see them and they can see the orange and the orange is swimming away, away. The orange keeps swimming away and she is crying.
I thought of a writing to write last night but alas I forgot it indeed. Sleep came and stole away my idea but it's okay I don't need it. I can write or tap, if you will, on this keyboard for hours without bore. My fingers might cramp or stiffen, if you will, but alas I shall continue to pass my eyes and brain and fingers over the empty space on the page. And pleasing or not the words they are there, and there they must be for my words are my words and alas that's what they shall be.
The crackling noise of the thing or things, who knows, abrupt in entrance awake me from a not so deep sleep. The kids are drinking again, I think but oh wait I am also a kid. Why am I alienated for my distaste in consumption of inhibiting beverages but no, it's not alienation. Me at lunch, when Simon himself, the devil, is a welcome interruption or even addition to the silent pressure of my thoughts. I crack my fingers and he asks if I need help. Not with this I think, I can do it myself. Nice try, dear friend.
I rub the top of my nose, my beak. It's grainy, or rough, perhaps, but not like sandpaper. It itches inside, inside of my nose, inside of my heart, inside of my bones, inside of my mind and my eyes. Everything is so itchy these days, I can hardly stand to look at it, writhing and slithering around, slimy in its own self. I rub up and down, wondering why, but there is not any answer. Never are there ever any answers. But it's okay, I forgive my nose and my heart and my mind mostly, for never having answers.
My mouth is on my stomach and he kisses it quietly. Our noses bump he is so klutzy but it's okay. It's sweet as he holds my hand and I blush because his is sweaty. It's okay cutie pie. I like you, dear, don't think you can scare me off. I brush my hair off my forehead and pick at the scab on my hair. His hand moves my arm. Stop. No. I have to get this scab off, it's an eyesore I think. Everything is an eyesore, I think. What looks good now? Nothing, dear, absolutely nothing but you.
"Nothing ever happened to me." Oh but it did, I'm sure. Weren't you born didn't you die. Or no, maybe I'm mistaken, that must have been your brother. How is he how's his wife the kids the dog the house. How was he. The job? But no, no I've known you too long all my life I would never ever confuse you (okay maybe I would) with your brother. Only maybe if he had his glasses on though, I swear. I heard your brother died, actually. Sorry to hear that old friend he was ninety I heard is that right?
The girl stands under a waterfall, long hair wet and hanging scarily over her face. She wears a white frock, no bra, no stockings, no shoes. She glides over the slippery stones in the fashion of an enigma who doesn't realize she is one. Her blond curls sway lightly as a cool breeze passes through the nearby green trees. The trees, happy with sun and water, smile down at the girl. She smiles back, her big teeth exposed in the grin. Her cheeks are flushed; she is cold but she loves it. The water flows slowly and softly around her.
Flowers are something of the past, she thought, as she meandered through the florist's shop. Her boyfriend never bought her flowers. He never bought her chocolates, either. He never bought her anything. Not that she ever bought him anything. Gift-wise, they were not a fantastic couple, unless deeds in bed counted as gifts. They were too regular to be gifts, she thought. Why do people even get each other gifts, if they're just going to bu things other people put effort into, why even bother, he thought. Neither of them ever wanted to express their love commercially, I guess.
Eleven is not my favorite number, or my second favorite, or third, or even fourth. Four is my favorite number, so round, yellow, nice. Four is my best friend, or friends, but that's a lie there are more than four. There are too many to count, maybe, or maybe I don't want to count. If I count then I am not alone, not nameless or faceless or free. And if I am not free, well. Well, well, well. Let's just say that if I count myself, which I don't, then I am accountable. Accountable only to myself, maybe, accountable nonetheless.
I made a bridge with the numbers and colors and sneezed and it fell. I built it again but no now it looks worse and I wanted to cry but I didn't. I ate a lolly instead and my friend whacked me when I said that and I laughed and offered her a lick. Cherry it is or was, depending on your position in time. If I could go back I would go back to that lolly and lick it again. Cherry is or was my favorite, I can never know, day to day. I know I miss that lolly.
I rub my eyes and mascara bleeds into my eyes. Smears, more like. I haven't been crying I've been crying sort of. Allergies? Does that excuse work? I wish I hadn't seen you so much today. You ought to know to stay away. Stay the hell away, as I'm sure you would say. And I do, I try to, I do. But I know you don't and really, man, why not. You only destroyed my concept of love and relationships. You only made me feel horrible for like a week. Why stop now, why not stop appearing to me everywhere.
My neck and my face are red and irritated. Either I'm blushing, or I'm allergic to my shampoo. I chose the latter, not knowing the difference between former and latter, and brush a tissue over the both. Nothing changes, they are still blushing and itchy and hot, hot like the heat lamp that keeps my nachos hot at school. Hot like the sun if you lay out long enough. Hot like a jacuzzi in the winter air. Hot like a bath if you jump right it. But heat, what is heat, to the non-scientist? Heat is affection, love, lust.
I made a square and a three. Or a triad if you must be so exact which I know you are dear friend. I like you anyway despite that paper having words I don't know which really wow I thought I knew a lot of words but that. That. How did it come to pass that you want to be a doctor don't you that's what Madame keeps saying. She's most often right with these matters too she knew I was going to study French I'm sure that's why she asked. Isn't that a good reason for her to ask.
The policeman smokes his cigarette leaning on his cop car in front of the school. Just in case he was told. Pot smoke wafts in front of his face but he ignores it. Let them be kids. Let them have fun. Let them be uninhibited. If only the world thought like me. He finishes his cigarette and gets back in the car. He drives down the road away from the school and the station and the highway and everything. I am suffocating on smoke he thinks. The smokey din of the little room in which he sits is overwhelming no?
I never start what I finish. I meander around in circles wondering why I have no motivation. But I am motivated, I am, only not to do what I'm supposed to do or what I should do but what I want to do, and then only when I want to do it. Perhaps that is just a lazy person's excuse for not doing things, that they don't want to but for me, it is the best and only reason not to do something. If I acted for any other reason than whim, then it would be obligation. I hate obligation.
The sun's rays glimmer through my windshield blinding me as they reflect or something through the drops of dew. I cannot see, I say to her. Stop then. No. We're already late. I drive on, ducking around trying to find a clear spot and wondering why my wipers don't work today. I blink and blink but it's all a blur. Are you sure you're okay? Yes sure I just can't see now. Stop then. No. I keep walking through the bustling crowd and nobody looks at me. I brake for a stoplight and it changes. I'm not sad I swear.
Surprise! as the balloons and confetti fly in the sky of my basement. The stripper poles are wrapped all up in ribbon and the ping pong table holds the cake. I make eye contact with them all but no, no, no I don't know them. I have walked into a surprise party for someone else, perhaps, I think, when I man I don't recognize comes up and hugs me tight like a bear or a tiger if he could. Maybe I do know him but really I don't think I do. Then I remember that today I am not me.
My thoughts meander, like my walk. I walk in squiggles, roaming from shoulder to shoulder, sidewalk to sidewalk, locker to locker, room to room. I've no purpose, perhaps. I've no purpose in this life, or maybe I've. Maybe wait, I must set my own purpose. Oh the absolute weight of that thought, makes me want and want and want to have someone else decide, but no, no, no. I don't want someone else to decide. Is it my life, or my life. My life? Who could possibly answer that? Is my life really, truly, my my life to live maybe?
I can only whistle one tune. It is a tune from a year ago, first heard on a car commercial. Why is everything commercial nowadays? I can't remember when they weren't. I am missing a part of the past that I was not alive for yet miss anyway but somehow, somehow, I know it was better before. But not. But was. Perhaps I ought to have been born earlier, no no, alas, it was not my fault, or was it? One should often ponder that question perhaps, was it your decision, or of another, when you were brought to life?
Why is the grass so blue today? It reeks of teal and turquoise, not the greenest green that I know and expect. Why is the air so blue? Air must not be blue, songs must not be blue, how can a song be blue oh but it can, it can. It most certainly can. Listen for the clang. If it's not there, maybe it's blue. Maybe purple, or red- no, silly, not red. Red clangs, clangs a lot, indeed. The montgolfiere takes off when the song is red. It takes off in the sunny red of the sunny sunny sky.
Kisses are unknown to me, I have only kissed a few times, and never to someone I loved or liked or wanted to kiss. I dreamt I kissed a girl. I've never done this. I'll probably never do this. My guts spill out on the floor, not out of my mouth. My mouth spills angst and nerves and fear and sometimes a little wisdom, but never the confidence needed to get me a kiss, a sweet little peck upon my pink chapped lips. Perhaps. No. I'm not sure I even want to be kissed, maybe I just want to kiss.
I can't remember. I can't remember. I can't remember that feeling, that overwhelming gnawing sensation of someone, something, someone's something eating me from inside, and not like that- get your mind out of the gutter. I rub my thumb, it's hot and swollen and cracked. Not twiddling, mind you, rubbing and it hurts and oh dear why. I want to go to bed, but no, no, no. The sleep will not come, the sleep will never come, not so long as I can't remember. I can't remember what you look like. And I used to see your face. Everywhere, everywhere.
The day is blue grey, with a touch of lavender fluttering about in the air. "Hey you with the sun in your eyes." My eyes scrunch together as the beams hit them with such force, bright yellow light force. Beams of happiness, or sadness, perspective. "Hey you with your feet on the ground." My feet are in the air, my feet are above the trees, my feet are above my head. I float. I float above the buildings and trees and smile and smile and smile. My teeth are gleaming and beaming and there is nothing to make me unhappy.
The clouds swirl above my head like mini hurricanes waiting to attack. I lean my head back on the grassy hill, brushing ants off my pants and sweater. A lady bug lands on my finger, then buzzes off. For beetles, they really are cute. I can no longer rationalize eating lunch with the others. They're conversation, celebrities, television, the radio, it bores me. I want to talk about divine, fascinating things. I want to talk about science, about truth, about religion, about society, about people. I want to talk about the things that really, truly matter in this grand world.
Vivacious Veronica is meine beste freund. She is not German or Russian or British or French but of heritage Ukrainian. Jendraziak, I'm told, but now Miller. How dull, I asked, and why. I may be French and my name but so it remains as Millet thought not pronounced properly anymore. Non plus, I say. She has a strange nose but beautiful eyes and a great figure and confidence on top of every every thing. She always has boys while I never have one well I had one two if you count that bastard who liked me but this isn't about-
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