ceasing to self-immolate (12/6/20)
“do you like it when i’m away? / if i went and hurt my body, baby, /
would you love me the same?
i can feel all my bones coming back /
and i’m craving motion
mama never really learns how to live by herself.” -- rick montgomery’s line without a hook.
these days, i can only get your attention when i’m tripping over cliffs + parachutes:
am i the most broken thing you ever had? i think i’d like the comfort in knowing that
i’m at least your “best” in this! i’m your special girl, at least in this regard, at least
i have your eyes on me when i’m making myself new scars, and you’re
worried about me for five minutes or so. and then every other hour of every other
single freaking day, i have to set us on fire to make sure we’re not cold. i will not
be the one who waits on you. not anymore. if you want to hear from me, then beg
for it! self-immolate and call us golden flowers, who even cares anymore? but
it’s what i did, my friend. douse myself in lighter fluid and be surprised you came to me first. it’s not like you did any other time. my ignition was the only time i saw myself
light up your eyes. so drink what you will. pretend like things are okay. because i know i won’t, and these days, i won’t wait for your attention, anymore: turns out, i know exactly
what i want us to be. a line without a hook, two boats drifting on an open sea.