scraps.

I will rearrange the furniture without mercy, because I know that when I find the right fit I will quit being so goddamn scared of the dark. I will eat all the food in this house, and all the paper, and when I am so full the darkness cannot fill me I will sleep soundly. Oh, the sound of it, nothing.

I’m not in love with you or anything, or trying to be, but I’ll memorize the shape of your back while you’re sleeping, because if I can internalize whatever it is that a man is when he’s sleeping, then maybe I can learn to sleep alone. The train rushes past and I realize this is foolish.

I pace the halls of my home like a ghost, or a rat, or a madwoman in one of those novels I can’t bring myself to read. An attic, or a basement, or a run-down bungalow out back, the grasses growing through the floorboards. A soup of shallots and watermelon blood. I can’t begin to tell you what goes through my head.

Give me a lineup of suitors and a long knife, and I’ll give you the god’s honest truth. We’re coming apart at the seams, it seems, and there’s not enough cocaine on the continent to make me forget what exactly I am. Whiskey, lemon, honey, tonic. Bird, stick, song and carrot. I’ll read your cards if you show me your hand, and if you show me your hand I’ll hold it. The night is almost as filthy as the day, and both would be yours if you’d own them.