a scrap from last week:

the frequency with which I feel my body failing me / these things that should be hard but not this hard / the sear in my head, eating my dinner out of packets in my bedsheets / the anxiety that pinpricks me up awake from the rest I know I need / because I am not designed for best success.

I stayed up all night, holding on camera movements, on dismissing conversation for the dawn vision-glaze, on eye-fucking a rock star of that type of man I’ve always chased and never quite gotten, the kind that reminds me of my father, tall and gaunt and gothic, but with a face like a beautiful woman and hands like swans, built to dip into the cold waters of your body and sing you down to hades.