coda

i've toyed with a new handle, i've considered a new webbed log. but these things aren't meaningful enuf to justify the time involved. call me lazy. uncreative, both are right on, brother.
let me except my deep, dark ugly bits. let me make mockery of these shamble down justifications and ill excuses. they are me as much as the things i like about me. even when i can't remember what those things are.
The sound of fireworks reminds me that i'm not in iraq.

so as my boyfriend turns away, i reach for writing. the assuredity of formed, typed or written letters. created from brain to page in moments. i live between the spaces of text, within the chapters of fiction.

he, on the other hand, has grown weary of my tripe. the burrs, tartness, my inconstant but utter ennui, indifferent libido, chronic pain...oh, it's a nasty broth. it was my understanding, however, that he too, would, should love my leftovers and lackings.

that may simply be too much to ask from a man i can still respect.

when i write about it, there's only one thing to do. but one shouldn't always be hasty. longer looks allow for greater understanding. if one looks right and well, i suppose. "the right kind of eyes" and all that.