Half the days I wish I had been one of those girls that was just content enough to find some guy to stick it in me, and call it a day. Pop out some brats with popsicle-stained mouths in a small-named town, work under fluorescent lights among partitions sitting on my ass and changing into gym shoes to walk out to my car and drive it economically back to a home to a house that smelled like a crock-pot. I'd use my tea bags twice and have lots of processed foods. Then I could celebrate holidays with said family, go on vacations in large recreational vehicles, watch them all grow up, and then die quietly with nothing much having ever really happened. Half the time I wish I was someone content with that. Mostly though, I'm shattered like colors into my life, slitting my eyes proportionally with my wry smile-spread. And the colors wave, and my laugh tries, and my legs fold and I'm always always alone and someone sticking it in me is entirely fiction but would be enough for seconds until I can straighten my eyes and think again, about cooler things to touch, and changing. Days are colored banners waving and nights are like stars/gems falling from the folds of my skirt. And for a long time that was enough, and for a long time it has been more and more alone, so that only alone is left ringing. ___
Let me just say that in the last year my f-list has undergone many changes and as it stands, i adore it. Every day i read through it is a new and inspiring feast for the eyes and brain. I'm very grateful.