i like my body when it is with your body. It is so quite a new thing. Muscles better and nerves more. i like your body. i like what it does, i like its hows. i like to feel the spine of your body and its bones, and the trembling -firm-smooth ness and which i will again and again and again kiss, i like kissing this and that of you, i like, slowly stroking the, shocking fuzz of your electric fur, and what-is-it comes over parting flesh . . . . And eyes big love-crumbs,
There is no cure for guilt, no cure for a heart made heavy with someone else’s sadness. And I believe that eyes are betrayers to the walls we’ve built. The cracks in the mortar and bricks our defenses are built on. Inside of us is a city. What we are, are fortresses.
and if from those eyes expose the ruins of colossal proportions, you are broken. And I cruelly stand underneath the starless sky with the person who could fix you.
I imagine you to be 35 years old now. 17 years my senior. As of this writing, I am 18 years old closing in on 19 years and absolutely terrified of growing older. My hair hangs loose and past my shoulders, almost touching my waist. My fingers sport blue nail polish, uncaringly chipped. And between those slender fingers, my menthol cigarette is tucked limply. My black, thick-rimmed glasses ride low on the bridge of my nose. From time to time I push it back up almost unconsciously, much like a reflex. This is your life 17 years ago. You are a self-conscious, egocentric, insecure teenager with too many bad habits. I’d like to tell you how I feel nowadays. It wasn’t easy being you, 17 years ago. I am confused. I am stressed. I am painfully insecure and much too self-conscious. I am a bit heartbroken. I think you were too young to be jaded with life and love. I think you were much too young to give up on the prospect of a Prince Charming.