Lost rosary beads.

You looked at me sometimes and asked me what I wanted.
Couldn't spit out that word. Wouldn't. I tried that night though, and positively
choked on it.
youalways say to me,
"just talk to me. Just tell me."
and once I told you some truth,
"I don't want to let you in."
you would have smirked in my dark room. I tried not to fabricate your smothered reply, in my mind-- "you just did".
It's just such a shame that you look so wonderful on my pillow. inside my grandmother's sheets. Once as she drove me home from a day in Year Nine Nonna tried to give me some kind of moralistic/religious speech. She was never one with words, and I would never cease to correct her grammar and word selection very rudely back then,
something I regret now.
shesaid to me,
"young girls these days are ashamed to be virgins"
Being that difficult just-teen I was, I would have stretched my legs as far as they could go in that tiny car and claimed that I would never have sex anyway because it was dumb, and only horrible girls at school had sex anyway, but Nonna it's not because I respect myself OR my body, I just want to hate something else. Because I'm a rebel, etc. And, also Nonna, my skirt is way too long, I want you to take it up more, nobody has a skirt this long, I swear, it's not fair.
Short skirts bought us here, my grandmother tucked us in and you
wonder why I'm speechless.

50-words of sweet rejection.

they slide into you composed longing claims fingers grope for drink find leg instead freshly-melted ice-blocks lend tepid
patches to burning whiskey don’t scowl as it goes down your denim-clad knees
separate knock little table and hers both rattle in protest a mantel-piece full somebody's love but stiletto-heel firmly hooked

I look good in stockings,

and you look good most of the time.

I'm twennytwo.

The Virgin and the Gypsy.

I dreamed you again. They're always so fucking fleeting. I had all my fingers splayed over your ribs. Letting myself become overcome. Your stare later swept my mid-section. I feigned a cold cringe. I woke up screaming this word: "submit!"

Written for my best friend.

To be sixteen again
in clashing denim
knee-high socks and
hi-tops
White Stripes guide us
we somehow manage to purchase
bottle of Smirnoff
in un-tucked sailor tops and
mis-mtached polka dots
old bus tickets and love declaration
Oasis, Beatles fixation
adorn our letters
when our mothers won't let us
be together after school anymore
Still feel sore

Yes, but is it honest?

As I meandered home after work last week, I let my mind go for a bit of a bound off the leash I so securely wrap round my wrist. It returned panting and dribbling slightly with all kinds of useless crap. But then a great revelation- "drop it! DROP IT"- surfaced.

You know how people say that you can only be loved if you love yourself? Makes sense, doesn't it. After all, how can you expect somebody to love something you don't bear any respect for? You can't, can you? I came to terms with this long ago. But lucky me, I don't desire love. Not lately. So love and I are on agreeable terms for once.

But say you met somebody who you can definitely say would love you for who you are. And you had not been yourself lately. You're going to reject that love, right? And then, what kind of love do you attract? Who's loving you when you're not you? It certainly can't be an honest relationship.

What's the value of honesty, these days, anyways? Does "happy" appear before "honest" in that great list of things "people" desire in their lives?

A good friend of mine once had the misfortune of hearing about some sordid lover I once kept, in all sorts of sordid detail. Oh, not the type you're thinking of. My erotic detail leaves much to be imagined. Instead, I dwell on furtive glances. A remark he made about my favourite sundress. How he holds a wine glass. She interrupted my vague, sappy flow with a crisp query that shut me right up. She may have even banged her palm on the steering wheel, but probably not: "Yes, but is it honest?"

Implications of a lost passport.

Planning to travel internationally relatively soon, and what is this girl's main concern? That she cannot get into any nightclubs, tonight. Somebody gate-crashed a small gathering (a Friday night thing, likely, with good wine but we are still missing substantial bulbs for each light fixture) and kicked a hole through my bedroom wall. Don't ask how- I know they're totally 1870s thick. My reaction? I'm there saying, "... I sure hope Dolores doesn't drag that dead rat in here via this hole."

Never mind landlords. Burglars. THERE'S A HOLE IN MY WALL, THIS IS TERRIBLE. Wait, what?

Immediacy. Immediacey? Is it an attractive thing, to be so seemingly consumed with what is frivolous. I shouldn't have attempted that as a question because I do know the answer- it's, "of course!" Wait, there is no 'E' in immediacy, except before 'D'- "of course!"

"I'm sure you can charm your way in," said my friend. Incidentally, I was totally charmed by the prospect of my character being anything akin to charming. Or, "prettier". Lipsticks lets a pretty girl look prettier. Lips like licked red candy are most pretty. I would attribute that candy line to Nabokov, only I think I misquoted and I don't want to insult my favourite Russian. I love a rose-stained mouth, and, apparently also (in accordance with my mobile phone's outbox messages of last night), "I love a fierce brow". That one I can pin securely on Christian Siriano, winner of the greatest season of Project Runway of, like, ever.