Mistake me for no one else. Look me up in the foreground when the screen freezes and the tree’s breezes. Look me up in the index, at the after party, in the third row. Look me up just beyond where it’s wet, where the show stops reaching, but the phases and the fog start stopping.
Look me up on lists that YOU made a long time ago, when it was only our fault. Look up at me when you see me for the first time and every time after that is another first time. Look me up when you forget that dynamism, when looking all around is fruitless. Look me up past the crescendo and into the calm. Where the bridge is, I am. Look.
Where there’s a ring, but there’s no way there would be. When we are all tall, to the finish line, the crowd grows on the backs of those whose hips pop and knees lock at every town. I look forward to going under, I look forward to the scar, I look forward to scalpels and saws, and pithy little landmarks, to respite.
Forced through a thick layer of garbage (and there was very little underneath), we were very much the leader. We were the tightest pants, we were huge disappointments. We stared, ashamed, but unable to help it. Our teeth were grey, our legs crossed in discomfort, our wives by our sides. We sipped, gesticulated, pantomimed, and have otherwise laid motionless beside tables. The bigger, better shoes, the longer torso, the wrong door, the wrong sign. Do I say something because I feel responsibility? And then I spend long enough somewhere in some place, and in that place I learn the rules and I want to follow them?
What did you look like when you fucked my husband? No one is perfect, but what did you look like?