I should have had more kids or less abortions. There might have been a daughter in one of those splattered eggs. A daughter. Would she hate me?
Crisp spring birds call their chatter towards my bed from sunrise to twilight. Patters of feet on the roof tickles freckles from my face.
You know what I like? A bad boy. I'm mean not too bad, like I don't want him to draw blood or anything. Just ignore me at a party. Or kiss me too hard. Or forget to call. Yeah, that's what I like; cute, sloppy, dark. That's what I like. A scratchy face. Strong arms. Firm thrusts. That's what I'm talking about.
I'm fucked to Tuesday and back, shifting feelings past mine when I call in pain. I leave crying in lines past the suicide surfers where the dark horse lives in filth. A house with no front door like landing on a wire with no wings.
I fall in love a lot. It happened to me just now. His face spilling food ready to steal piss from hard kisses. I'm pregnant with slipping wine.
Is he mad at me? Do I piss her off? Do I tell him things he doesn't want to hear? Fuck them.
The music stopped. I must concentrate. It’s time to feast. I'm famished. Brown rice is tasty.
I've been clearing space. Perhaps I feel too big in a world too small. Perhaps my brain is cluttered. I'm bored. Being happy promotes boredom. That shouldn't be the case but fuck it.
There's places forming, begging, teasing me to push, shove, flip, my inside space from clutter to regret. It's safer than regretting meaningful.
Throw safety into the pond, between the bridges, before the runner, after the dark forests. Throw away everything. Regret pushes up against panic.
My regrets are an important part of me like what awaits when you're through the tunnel. What surprise is around the corner. Who's the one in the dark forest? And will I go there again?