from To People Who Sometimes Read

I would love to work towards fucking one man and getting it just right, so my lips don’t break apart. I want to write further away from myself because I’m sick of being myself. Right now I have it so much better than you. I have nothing worth moaning about except maybe my leg not bent right. The further away I get from my ideals, the easier it is to speak under water or under the weather. How lopsided these phrases go, without any surprise. Self-consciousness is unattractive. I really look like winter, but sicker, whiter.