some attempts at candor, because the thrilling fear of accidentally revealing myself to my subject matter is the only thing that really gets me thinking clearly.

things I like:

- that you probably know exactly what I mean by that first sentence.

things I don’t like:

- how obvious it is to me, and likely to others as well, how quickly my writing style shifts around to suit itself to whoever I’m fucking or reading or reading and fucking

(I just want someone to put their words in me through every means of ingress and then I pull the ribbon from my mouth like a magician’s trick, other people’s cadences pigmented with my blood).

I like: how you like to cum twice.

If wishes were horses, we’d have to steal hay, solely based on how often I think about leaning my head on your shoulder, or the way you pull my arms around you.

I don’t like: how I keep wanting a word for this, how I know it’s true about me that if you’d call me your girl then I’d care even less about unanswered messages or other women or long stretches of divergent time, how a certain kind of purely symbolic validation matters more to me than, I don’t know, a bunch of shit that quote unquote normal reasonable adults seem to care about. Fuck whoever you want forever but let’s get matching tattoos and make everyone we know worry about us just a little bit. 

I want to tell you all my dirty secrets–all the smoke-singed motels and suburban den couches and vacation city alleyways, all the times I saw stars, and that time that things went so, so bad, and that other time, and that other other time, and reading aloud from a cookbook in a tongue I don’t speak and fucking on a white couch above the frozen lake, and my terrible fear of french girls, and how I am this endless stream of wanting, a desiring machine, and how afraid I am to die and how hard it is to be alive, and how that somehow makes me want to kiss you harder.

I like the way you look me right in the eyes. I like how you hold my hand. I like your clever jokes and your kindness and your alcoholism and your overly romantic sensibilities. I like the way you make me want to work harder to be happy, make me want to stay in bed all day, make me want to jump out of it and make a thousand beautiful weird things. So I guess I like the way you make me feel the things I’m always feeling, but somehow happier.