As is usually the case after a couple of weeks of sassyness and self-confidence, of short flippy skirts and tall leather boots, I can feel myself starting to ebb. I start to panic when this happens because I know these depths and I don't want to revisit them. And so I start to talk too much, and the difference between this and my normal talking too much is that I'm trying to build universes and crystal towers and pretty little bugs out of all of these words. I'm trying to make myself someplace to go because if I don't this momentum will continue and I'll smear myself all over your windshield like a redheaded bugsplat.
I don't want you to have to scrape me off of anything.
The problem is that everything I've ever seen is trying to press itself out through my eyes. It wants to get to you but I don't know how to jiggle the handle of the door and let it out. And I'm sure that if you touched me, just here on the backs of my knees, I would smash into a million pieces.
No comments:
Post a Comment