say anything

this week

i arrive at campus before 8am. i have an hour to spare, so i cross the plaza and float towards the library where i can be alone with the books.
it is easy to lose oneself somewhere between the quiet tenacity of french literatures, the overly analytical critiques of shakespeare's works (which cover a whole aisle of shelves, by the way) and into the dreamy depths of the classics.
i am glad to be alone with the books. i am delighted by the bound and printed selves of authors past and present. i want to bind myself like they. i glide through the landscapes of modern thought, over precipices of self-denial, into the collection of the extraordinaries. i search for peace.

i prick my searching fingers as i arrange a flush of roses. they have thorns. these draw small beads of blood from my skin. i disregard.

breathing heavily, i dig my nails into the ground.
your intentions, those got pretty ugly
your opinions, for which i do not care.
don't have to thank me/thank me.
would you just be frank with me?




why must i be second-last?
why must i be second-last?