It’s hard for me to write about you. To remember the way you looked at me; to remember the words you wrote to me. To remember how it was all of these that will no longer exist. To remember how it’s all of these that you no longer want.
It’s hard for me to find the right combination of words to describe you. To describe me, when I was with you. My English teacher told me it’s because I have to wait for the blood to dry before the ink will take.
Otherwise it’s messy, emotional. Unfocused. Like us, that night.
When I was young, my mother taught me that she was better on tequila. Now that I’m a little older, I’ve discovered I run on wine.
I used to like to do everything with an equal level of mediocrity, to make sure that everything I did had breathed a level of inadequacy. Because you are born being told what you are, and raised to believe it is all you are. What they don’t tell you is that it’s no longer about what you are.
How is it like being a hot grill on the internet? People say you are pretty and stuff all the time
I’ve been on the internet since I was four. After awhile, you realize the opinions and facades of humanity you see online are all just runners in a very special Olympics. None of it actually matters. In the real world, I’m just an average asian girl and learning to be OK with that (my mom just kind of isn’t).
So I have a crush on a supervisor at work, but she has a boyfriend who also works at the same place. Is it worth it to try and pursue her despite her having a man or should I forget about her?
People hold a very high value to being able to make their own decisions. If you like someone, and respect them as a human being, you should also respect the decisions they make independently of you. She chose to be in a relationship, and who to be in a relationship with.
I think the more important question, really, is why you have no respect for people and their relationships.
I keep rereading all of my old drafts, wondering when it was that I was happiest or saddest, when it was that I actually felt something.
I can’t write like I used to, because my thoughts are preoccupied repeating the last moments of you there.
The problem with art and writing is that it’s born from a level of intelligence, but it’s all colored by emotion. By feeling: by the way you make me tremble at two in the morning, by the way you make me break at two in the afternoon.
It’s been weeks, and I know I can make it seconds if I picked up the phone. If I can do you from more than memory alone.
I used to wonder if I was good in bed. I used to wonder how to be good in bed.
It’s obsessive. The way they show fucking in movies: excessive, in twenty-second bursts and flashes of skin. The way they show fucking in pornography: rapid, in long minutes and forgettable looks, personalities, noises.
It’s weird: fucking, in real life. It’s this dance that both of you don’t understand because it didn’t exist before either of you came together. It’s not a waltz, a tango, or some oddly distinctive, gritty club dancing. It’s your body meeting another, making something that has never been before.
What they don’t tell you is that all of it is right–slow and quick and the speeds inbetween.
I used to wonder what I would have to fuck like to keep you. What the girls before me had to do wrong to lose you; what the girls after me will have to do right to keep you.
It’s funny how synapses work–the way our mind draws connections to memories; how the olfactory triggers the me even my mind cannot remember, the way the back of my tongue has become a gustatory repository for everything that once tasted of you and everything tasted with you.
10. 24. 305. My mind doesn’t understand numbers. It doesn’t create the relations that most people make. I can no longer recite timetables, carry things properly in my mind or subtract as quickly as everyone else. I can’t visualize the ones, the twos or the threes or the fours. And that’s always been where I overcompensated–why my words are my counting, why my entirety is only a literary compilation. Why I can recite the theorems, but cannot reconstruct the formulas.
I could write you about all the things I like about sex–reiterate erotica I slipped my hands under the covers with when I was twelve on thirteen; recall all the men I once had only in mind, and then the men I once had eventually inbetween sheets.
I could paint pictures of positions and types–match fabric swatches to the silk and corduroy of skin and hair; talk about how the electricity vibrates through the core of my being, paint pictures of how my emotions are magnified and my body enlightened.
I could show you how I watched my features set on fire; how my body became mine–but captivating and recited like a movie that could only be watched once, and never owned.
People tell me that fucking is vague, shallow and meaningless. People tell me that fucking is a loveless act.