belief

we stay up late. we discuss our theories.  we discuss the theories of all the big dogs and i count my blessings.  then, i count how many shots i've poured.  i count how many books i've read this year (far fewer than the last) and i count how many times i can get a raised eyebrow out of a man.

my roommates head to bed and i hang new pictures on the wall.  pollen filters in through my open window and i listen to the neighbors fighting.  i put on a slow song of romantic redemption.  i take off my shoes.  i take off my socks.  i pull the braid out of my hair.

earlier, we discussed the power of images.  we discussed the power of persona and watched Lady Gaga videos.  i played my favorite and said: "she understands visual pleasure. she knows the exact moment when taboo begins."

that picture up top:  that image is me and it is not me.  i am that girl sometimes.  and sometimes that is the truest self i can express.  sometimes i am a girl of fishnets and wild hair and all i want is for someone to notice that i need a nice, good slap.  but there are reasons for this and those reasons matter. those reasons are not contained in the photographs i present.  there is the allusion.  there is the heartache.  it is spelled out in vivid pink.  it is scrawled all over me.  but i don't want to have to go on and on about it.  sometimes i just want a reckoning and i don't want to have to argue for it.  just do what needs to be done.

that picture up top:  it is me and it is not me.  sometimes i am not that girl at all.  sometimes i am too angry for romance, too absorbed in my own slow rage.  i am too interested in my own steam and decorum to consider the desires of another.  leave me alone.  i like my lonely road just fine.  i need no hand to hold.  god died for me the second my mother did. and let me tell you, i've never felt so fucking free.  i twirl my hair and paint my nails and stare you in the face.  i don't owe anyone anything and i plan to keep it that way.

that picture up top:  it is me and it is not me.