i don’t even have to steal your words, you give them to me, for free. so strange to know, you can and cannot hurt me… what part of this ontology am i not supposed to like? i, too, have been much lonelier. there’s this enormous surplus of feelings and or words and we prick at the tarp letting little pinwheels of light come in but never really touching the source… i don’t even know you shadowed by the knowing the knowing that has nothing to do with life, stories, their wicked specificity. sometimes my speech moves so fast inside me before it hatches and i know i am about to flop over into tongues but i don’t care this is the speed at which i run and you run fast too so i let you touch me with one hand while the other steers a car through midtown manhattan and it’s almost as if none of this has ever happened.
-Something Bright, Then Holes by Maggie Nelson.
