We all have inner and outer lives.
They’re messy, hopelessly intertwined, and more
than mere mannequins to hang our word-art upon.
I’m supported, in my unwritten life, by a structure
of moods, both affine and counter-expressive. I’m,
in turns, a tightly wound vagabond, an over-busy,
fretful, unhappy liar (for what I will not share) and
a happy, truthful mess (for what I may overshare).
My outer-life is largely academic, and turned with
complete absorption to task, I plow thru the
needed assignments, like a caffeine fueled machine,
You might rightly call outer-me boring. I get it, for
nothing much happens beyond study and life’s
usual maintenances.
But my inner-life is full of action, if desires,
dreams, and internally ranting against the injustices of youthful separations can be rightly called actions.
Of my boyfriend, the world contains not one parallel.
He overshadows the few others I’ve ever known.
His masculine elements turn me all the way up,
He knows my petty vanities and most of my weaknesses. If he doesn’t know my every phase of feeling, or every desire of my love starved soul, it’s because our love is peripatetic.
Most of the year, we’re a long distance, digital, practical nothingness, A near autofictional anticipation. We are separated by a sea and more. If I may simply put it, I have a fine young body that is going to waste.
When I complained to my older sister, a surgeon who long delayed her own personal life for her career, she shruggingly and unsympathetically said, “You only have to suffer a few more years.”
“Oh, mon Dieu!” I replied.
.
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positions by Ariana Grande [E]
34+35 (Remix) by [feat. Doja Cat & Megan Thee Stallion] [E]