rubble, not that kind
seeing as to you reading
what
i
wrote,
you'd be surprised
it is not a weary writing about a weary life.
i can see you think that
haven't i told you to think that as much as
i have told you not to
or not, maybe you got so much molten erupting self inside you too
that you don't think about me at all
even if i use a lot of i
don't pity me
for i shun myself ten times as much
just so it does not weigh on you
anyway rubble, yes, what kind though
the laundry done looks like rubble
that is the kind of rubble yeah
as a kid i used to bury myself inside of it
not to come out though,
just to stay in
i wanted to be under, it was quieter
the world smelled clean, safe, moist
is that how it ought to feel
i loved women who made me feel that way,
a mix of slightly damp, slightly dry,
smells of the sun and smells of wetness all the same
they were also always heavier than me but they did not like it
i wanted to get fat for them so they will like me
but when i did get fat
i was ugly and sick in ways they never fetishized so i kept loving them skinny
because i always anyway loved like i was starving
they complained i am too lean for them and maybe that is one reason they didnt like to be seen with me
for cameras that is
in my memories they marked the images though
of me worshipping them
the slaps, the spits, the spats,
i felt oh you poor thing, i can’t help you, but i tried
The first part of my longest I have written and hidden when the idea of sharing felt like selling and it asked me to sell everything.
