no title: this is no fairy-tale

the jealousy is negligible; the blatancy of how much things could never be that ridiculous fairy-tale with which we're bombarded and brain-washed is logically comforting. myriad tenuous beginnings afoot with a comical vehemence pacify my reckless tendency to plunge into the decadence of full-on co-dependent romantic assault. maybe this time it will be real for you; the tenderness is genuine each time, I can sense this, am sometimes the recipient. maybe this time you will understand the oracle cradled in your heart. I wish this for you. someday. not necessarily right now, because I want to fuck you.

what do you need so badly that you chase and chase and chase? why do we flicker on and off for each other knowing that we're just practicing? with each disconnect, I await a new moment, a second or third, 463rd first. I collect firsts. it always seems like a first when nothing is expected, when the last "first" could always be a "last." and it lasts.

what do I need so badly that I chase and chase and chase? nothing, I just want. I linger in moments so fragile and pure that I do not notice the seediness of the misconceptions inadvertantly planted until the impossibility of it all blooms.

in a word, I'm sensational. sensory-overload starved, craving, mad. I only want moments because ending eras are a kind of drama I can't sit through right now. I only want now. I touch myself to get over it, I create my own experience and get off. there is a harsh safety in the knowledge that certain things cannot be, and it fuels the engine of my wandering lust.

I gather that you sometimes cram your foot into shoes that fit as well as our tongues fit into mouths, for a moment attempting a fairy-tale that ultimately becomes grim, reaping when you only thought to sow. I know this because I've cultivated a garden of magic bean stalks by being ripe to the notion that I can always leave when clouds prove not to be comfortable ground.