look at your clock. it's tomorrow. all the seconds and minutes of yesterday are gone, disintegrated with the window dust. 12:00 a.m.; re birth.
i've always had this theory that in between 11:59 p.m. and 12:00 a.m., there's this vast ticking of nothingness that hovers between the minutes. just for a second, you are nowhere. the day is both finished and regenerating, and that's sort of magical. i always think that apollo falters, just for a second, as he puts the moon away, tucked neatly in his teeth.
born in a typewriter.
i can never think of how to start anything. the point, of course, is to grab the reader's attention before they become bored with your work and leave, and i don't know if i can do that. i am afraid i cannot ever begin to tell you all of my story.
if i were to be chronological, i would start with telling you when i began to write. but, 1: i am never in order, and 2: being a writer and writing are two different things. we learn to write as we learn to read. but being a writer sometimes has nothing to do with putting anything down on paper. in fact, i bet there are thousands of writers in the world who have never known it, but they're still writers. being a writer is feeling; feeling is burning. good luck.
i am coming to believe i was born of a typewriter and a femoral artery; i am pumping and pumping and running, every day and every night; there are tiny black letters in my thigh-- "it's okay".. (it is okay).
the boy who touches like a poet.
some people touch like they live. and i know a boy who kisses me not like he owns the world, but like he is curious about it. i cannot write about him; i don't have the words.
the time his palm ran over my stomach, his skin cold, i might have almost fallen in love.