I Would Own You, Too.
Wake in the infant morning to turn at both taps with vice-like hands(because they drip and if you are going to waste water, please do so through well-meant means. Half clean dishes I will have to wash again). I make a sweet rice dish in memory of the Sister I once had (when she was everything she was supposed to be. Young and trying. Making plans and mistakes), in my dreams she says she never liked it, remarks my lodgings look like the corridors and classrooms of our high-school. Someone else sits on the end of my bed and smokes a lone cigarette, I deliberate over my hunger for isolation. I don’t need to worry, they leave soon enough. I go out for lunch with my Mother and pick at something I am supposed to be swallowing. I watch the concern touch her features. It dances from one eye to the other. I don’t watch for long, her unrest gathers into piles that resemble fear; I recognise disdain in the taut grip around my own neck. She is not scared for me. She is pondering what she might have done wrong. I wish I could tell her now, without building to the conversation (first I would tiptoe, then dip a finger in and under and only then would I start to lower my limbs inside); I don’t know if you did anything. I don’t know what is wrong and when it started. There is also a part of me that doesn’t want to gift her relief. Because she is always the victim, and maybe for once she should be the predator. She should be in the wrong.
I lied about my age a lot when I was younger. I wonder how long it will be before I am tempted to say I am younger than I am.
Well-fed is a much more pleasant (and possibly honest) way to describe a curvy, jolly person. It is like the lean back after a large festive meal. It is content and it is dazed.
If I were to give you sole credit. If I was to rely, depend and count on. If I were to trust you. You had better not hurt me because I swear to fuck I would kill you. I would come round to your place and I would push my fist into your face, claw at your neck. Stuff like that.