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my language trembles with desire

October 30, 2011

A fact: it is almost impossible for me to get lost. I have a unique understanding of space. I am able to picture where I am and what is around me. I am not afraid of right turns or loops. I have spent years mentally tracing and retracing steps. I remember rooms I’ve only been in once, the color of the walls, the smell of the linoleum. These things stay with me long after they are useful.

One moment I am standing on a porch on 174th and Third Avenue talking to strangers. Eighteen years later, this house no longer exists. Eighteen years later and I am filled with dread and confusion when I pass by. Nothing happened, this I know. But I was left on a porch while you went to get straight.

I put these pieces together after the fact.

Simon Van Booy once wrote, “All siblings have a secret life from their parents. Parents love their children, but children need each other to negotiate the strange forest they find themselves in.” Yes. I need to reach out my hand at points in this life and grasp yours. This happened, didn’t it? This happened. I’m not crazy? Please tell me I’m not crazy. You’re not. I remember what you remember. I need to contextualize my memories and make sense of what I know, what I know I know, and what I don’t. This blood carries risk. This blood carries burden.

I said I wanted to lie in bed for a week, and I did just that. Nothing is clearer except: I do not want to want to lie in bed for a week.

My language trembles with desire, my words are sloppy, incoherent. My thoughts race. I want to say, fuck the signs and fuck the consequences. But I know better. I want to say all the things I should not say. I am choking on all the things I do not say. I want to communicate in ways that do not fail me when words do.

This means kissing the scar on the back of your hand. This means closing my fingers around your throat just to feel your heart racing.

This means being reckless when I have the chance. This means throwing myself into poetry and praxis. This means learning new words with which to taunt others and torture myself.

“I am a girl /with incendiary/vices and you have a filthy never

mind./ If you say no, twice,/it’s a four-letter word.” – Daphe Gottlieb, why things burn

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One Comment leave one →
  1. November 1, 2011 4:56 pm

    Every post I read from you feels like a torture (in such a good way). I feel you scraping the surface of something and I would really like to see what’s underneath. Show me, us.

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