Vagary

In my dream, I kill him. I kill him because he sleeps next to me and better than I do. I have to clasp my hands and squeeze my thighs around them because they, my thighs and hands, are restless. I fear that I will strangle him otherwise; he sleeps so peacefully. I am jealous that he will wake up tomorrow and know none of this. I am jealous that he will wake up tomorrow.

It is the 5th of May and a passerby remarks to two others, “You guys are rocking those sombreros.” What the fuck is wrong with you, New York?

He tells me he only learns up til the point he realizes he could become an expert if he decides to. He never decides to, just knowing that he could is enough. I am surprised this doesn’t make him feel like a fraud.

The men who sleep with me always wonder if I am writing about them or my father; yes.

I am not allowed to hurt myself and I think that is incredibly unfair.

I think I want to be a writer because I don’t want to take responsibility for anything.

I always remember to look pretty when I cry. This is how you get people to fall in love with you.