spooks of my night.

I want to write something tonight. But I don’t see what you see and my knees are sore from dancing.


I want to sing a song tonight. But I am not poetic and lyrical enough.

I don’t have tap shoes anyway. I’m weak after all, from all the delusion.

Tonight I will light some candles and make no sense, and read over things that make me feel good because they make no sense. Senselessness is so fun and invigorating. I hope, not boring? I would hate to be boring. I’d much rather microwave a cat than be boring.

I am not morbid and my parents did not commit suicide or walk out on me. Cats are nice animals, but I like dogs better. My cousin says dogs are prettier in China than they are here. Maybe that’s true? Maybe people go to China one day, and get those breast implants that would look so pretty with in their skin-tight corset, because I’m guessing if their dogs are prettier their boobs must be too.

Maybe one day I’ll actually write a book and have pretty butterflies on the cover, and somewhere in the blurb it will say ‘beware, here the last traces of myself I lay bare’, or some other corny shit, because after those words that have left me for a nice home on clean white paper, I’m going to be pretty drained.

But that’s ok too. I’ll need a reason to train it out of town and lose it in a dark, cold field, and find my way back again, following the pebbles, or the roses, if the world is kind enough. And being drained and empty makes the sky seem bigger and the numbness more hollow, and me… I can latch onto raw feeling and let it take me away on its wings. Because I’ll be lighter by then, and too tired to remember that I’m terrified of heights.

I wonder, do we ever think what happens after that?

Either way, tonight is not about thinking. I’m too sensible anyway, I know I’ll come back one day. Maybe when I’ve had all the fun, I’ll sit down resigned, have tea, steal myself a proper cat like the one from your house, and have grandkids or something.