I’ve been told that the world rotates and this is why the sun comes up and it makes sense rationally, with light blue diagrams and all, but in the end I think the sun moves and I’m here glued. I’ve been known to think this, feel this, in my bones about being stuck, pinned, moved about in a circumscribed sphere from time to time. but still, i try to guess.
I am moveable.
When he woke up in the morning he had a pounding headache. Amidst the clamor and bang he noticed the glips in thought from the night prior. How did I- but then self-preservation, saving grace almighty, kicks in and he’s tight inside but loose like autopilot kicks in and he’s hugs and casual. We’ve all been here before, kiddo.
He doesn’t want anything to do with me really. I am a strange remnant that heeded his call to stay when he was drunk and lonely, but still he didn’t want me really. But the beck and call. And I think I come too readily, regale to steadily, stay too easily, play casual for comfort’s sake. Am I the good girl a man wants to corrupt? Am I the man-eater a boy wants to conquer?
I am, like all others, regardless of gender, the impeccable mirror by which someone measures their own worth. That mote in a field of vision which might catch an eye and serve as a moment of existential reflection. That body warm, with a passable personality bigger than they know. And how.
My me will conquer all. My I will bask in your gaze and blaze. Mark my words.
