You asked me why I started writing.
I write scenarios in my head that I will someday play out.
God, Puppeteer and puppet.
And the tides shift the way I want them to
And the weather is the way it’s supposed to be
And people love me the way I want them to love me.
Men look at me the way they look at Marilyn or Audrey
you never die once you’re written down
And my career is what I want it to be
When I write.
I write about places I’ve been — and how I wished they’d turned out
I write about you, and how we stopped talking,
but that’s OK
because I’m twenty different things here
and you’re flipping burgers.
Does that make me an asshole?
No. It can’t when I make the rules in my head.
I write the rules.
I’m not an asshole.
You might be.
Maybe I grabbed onto you too hard
Like in fourth period
Your leg when I drew different sized penises on it
Maybe I held on to you too hard
Too soft when you wanted it
Wherever you left to
The story continued for me
to write you the way you were supposed to be
The way you wanted me to be
Like the way I write in my twenties looking at the cars and city lights
Like the way I write to forget and to remember
All at the same time.