Friday, December 2, 2022

56

I said we but mean I. I said you but mean me. I was tired and something slipped. Some apologies are merely ways of repositioning power, default of the default of some forgotten memory of being pushed in the mud. Polka dotted umbrella opened into the escape I don’t want anymore. It wasn’t the plan to bring you into this, but it was already a mess—already entangled or drenched or whatever metaphor someone else will come up with to name the thing we are for each other. The rain collects itself on anything it can, and we keep each other without asking. Some things are not about the asking. The exhaustion of gender is the question blown into noise, noised into color, pattered into screens which say something about what was once called representation, when I still thought I could talk about that without lying. But there is no lie here. When I said you, I meant you. I meant we and the apathy of puddles.

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63

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