existing in opposition to something requires holding it still. i think a lot about how things might be different if i were better at letting go.
on friday night i go to margot’s party. we sit around in her backyard where the air hangs still, full of cigarette smoke and slightly frantic chatter. i am wearing a loose black dress and red boots. my hair is pulled back. i am tired but trying not to show it.
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i wonder sometimes (often) whether true intimacy is something i can ever really have. can i shed the role? will i ever be able to stomach it?
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last night i dreamt again that i was in a situation i just was not sure i’d make it out of. this time, a haunted house. we were meant to stay for two days. it was a question of withstanding.
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at the party a boy holds my house key in his hand, hooks it to his carabiner and asks What do you worry about?
i smile at the ground, look away as i answer Well, men.
and, i guess, (i look at him now) my parents dying before i’d like them to. my sister dying before i’d like her to. fires.
he looks at me funny but not terribly so.
Well, sure.
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on the way home i twirl my key in my hand, listen to the click and clack of my boots against the sidewalk.
the whole point is that there is no point other than that which you give it.