If boredom was an essay, the word count would always fall short.

Thank You Genevieve

So, Emily Dickenson only believed a man,
truly believed him,
when he was in agony.

If you disappoint me, I’ll be upset.

I DON’T CARE if my eagerness lacks ‘tact’.

I could scab over, roll with the punches,
but I’ll just get excited over your mannerisms.
I’ll twist, it’ll crack and…

I’ll bleed everywhere. Aw shit.

So...um

There is nothing ‘Sex’ can teach me,
That’s Sex with a capital S… because, we make the sandwich baby.
I’m into the wack shit and I let myself down by not saying so and
secrets are boring.

I’ll finger myself with memories. Expired moments.
I’ve re-written things you’ve said on a post it note?

I’ve never fucked my idea of you…maybe I will tonight.

My arbitrary fantasy, does that make you wet or what?

Unwind.

I lie down, make a different form. Spreading breasts, thighs, fingers. They disperse amongst the linen.

I may rest.

I make a rule. When I roll over and I reform,
I will break it.

I mused about how they spend their time at home and I got it totally wrong.
I tried to climb a mast with a dead arm.
I enjoyed hearing the word lovely aloud.
Love-ly…love-err-leey.
I found the mirror more interesting than the face.
I tried to get away with exploring what I haven't experienced.


I should be interested in the face, because it is what i know.

Transparency

Transparency is out of season. Why bother lusting after a piece of burnt toast? That’s potentially carcinogenic…

But, it’s freshly toasted and googy and everything is melting, perfectly.

It's just going to burn.

INSTRUCTIONS

The fickle furnace of the heart burns through attraction like match sticks.
Point the flame in the right direction, to keep it alight.
A bad mood makes everything predictable.
Be discerning.
What tastes good?
What “gets” you?