My pulse beats like a frightened rabbit’s, waiting for some catch to trap it and settle it like dust in attics. I can’t help but be dramatic! I can’t help but quickly add it up and see you don’t want me to take you out for toast and tea or tell you just how truly sweet you look when you are kissing me – I’m much more into self-defeat than taking a haphazard leap from shingled roof to balcony, to tap your tongue and flick your teeth. No – given my discretion, I would rather the protection of my neatly ordered room and newly poured medicine. I know it’s no better than trudging through this weather and then leaving disappointed when you say you’ve got to sleep.

My limbs always feel a touch too hollow, like the scroll is set too fast, like the ring around the collar was too loose and unrestricted – now my movements are like tics and I am jerky like a carriage in a 1920s reel. I don’t want your hand for marriage – I just want your palms to feel that I am hollow – moving too quick, one more drink would make me too sick to catch you for Thursday breakfast or an afternoon picnic.


~ by perfectionatrix on December 17, 2010.

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