I like the drafts better.
I like when the words live unsewn, can walk off the bus at a rest stop two hours from their destination, stretch this way and that, bend the calves, and I like when people have no idea what I’m talking about.
“Teaching, is it?” He asked, lighting a cigarette.
But of course I’m misanthropic and don’t go outside, except with people I wouldn’t honestly talk with, just share a meal, play a part with, and what I really meant is that he typed and I read through an Instagram DM, in the world of the Internet, which was a beautiful place in 2004, but a surgically imposed skull cap alien experiment to the death, now.
“Or is writing the thing you’re trying to like, do?”
I look off to the moonlight, my hair is perfect. No one has ever not loved me.
I shift in the couch of the ER Doctor that I’m dog-sitting for, fat, quite ugly, a little roll of fluorescent flesh and unbrushed hair.
“Writing’s the thing,” I nod, though fuck if I know that.
I do, I mean, I know it, but I am willing to accept that this could be some sort of Van Gogh situation—or whatever tortured artist lived penniless and rose to acclaim after death.
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