truth songs.

my latest question.

i am led to wonder what kind of girl i am, that you were the one not afraid to be with me. what does it say about you, what does it say about me?

there are things that we have known, things that we have said, things that i envision, things that we invented.

i once spent a noticable amount of time thinking about cute pet names, and consequentially, ways to implant them in you subtly, while i forgot them, so you would call me turtle and i would be surprised that you thought of something so nice. bean sprout, mimosa, whatever. i was inifinitely clever in the ways that turned you into what i wanted.

every day i pass these men on the street, beautiful men in long jeans and long hair, with thick leather belts holding them together. only the rare native turns my head these days, though, only the long straight profile of a smooth skinned sioux boy makes me wonder. and none of them carries a dagger. you are my specimen. you carry two.

you told me about fear. together, i think we may be afraid of everything. i walk on tiptoe when you are sleeping and you lie to me, there are infinite dimensions to our deception. you're afraid of hurting my feelings because you think you know about me. you think you know my truths.

ill be honest with you.

i heal faster than you can do simple maths in your head. so tell me about fear. but if you spare me like this again, i may break you. i may break you because it would be satisfying.

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there is a girl who stays with us right now. a girl who works at an expensive coffeeshop in the financial district, serving coffees and pastries to well groomed men in suits. every night she brings home bags of croissants, butter soaking out of their crusts and through their wrappings onto the counter. i live on pastry, two croissants and a muffin every day, because its free and i am poor. at night when i rifle through bags of bread, my body screams for the protein i cannot afford to feed it, the way it screams when i am in the shower. then it whips me to kneeling, shaming me for being the only one who touches it.

the body is made for survival. i know that my frequent cravings for potatoes indicate a lack of starch in my diet, or in my life. i think this body, of all bodies i have known, has the ability to speak in metaphors. my respect for it is immeasurable. it knows i like potatoes and it knows how to best tell me how much it misses you. i stumble in the mornings, that weakness behind my thighs a signal that my sensitivity is waning. it expects me to talk to you, but how will you answer it?

"i am craving you. i think that the lack of contact between your mouth and my body is dangerous. i am going to waste away."

i see your thickly amused stare, cold because you still hate the female parts of me, you hate any part of me that wants you or needs you or maybe loves you. you will shake your long hair with its growing streaks of pure white. sometimes when i look at you i search your head in the dark, my eyes seeking a strand of brown as a symbol of your youth, of the virility youve had that i will never know.

"youre crazy. speak boy if you want me to understand you."

i think instead i will fall asleep alone in your bed, unsatisfied but dreaming. i never lose hope, probably because i am capable. i will wake up in an hour or so and excuse myself to the bathroom, or the couch in the living room to assume the duty you denied and i will return dully satisfied to sleep through the night. every morning i wake up with you, i wake up angry. how vicious, this cycle. my body forgives you, but will not forgive me. i forgive you, but not this body. we could get along if it could forget you. you forgive nothing that is any part of me. i am all girl, and i think you will always hate me for falling for you.