Constant

I hope to sit with you one day,

in a content sort of way.

Sometimes thing are okay and sometimes they’re not,

But I’d love to have you as a constant, even though you can’t be constant,

Because one day, after you’ve become my constant, my comfort, you’ll die, or I will,

And the other will be left in a constant state of grief and loss, which will in some way ease but never go.

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Diary

This is the first thing that comes to mind:

that time when an “important” someone said I wasn’t pretty in not so many words.

This is the second thing that comes to mind:

the things I write are, so often, a sapping showcase of my vulnerability.

This the the third thing that comes to mind:

my poor little dead bird in the soil.

This is the forth:

I cried so much over that dead bird, harder than I’ve cried in years, so hard that I hurt my throat, that my mother said she hasn’t heard me cry that hard since the first time my heart was broken when I was 18 and still a girl.

The basics

Even though I know I shouldn’t be aspiring to this – which I’m not-

it would be so much easier to stumble through life, knowing that I could come home and fuck you.

Just to take your hand in the supermarket, or the bar, or at a bus stop and let your presence lift me up.

Exchange glances,

Feel the plunging realness of love in different circumstances.