3 times agirl

1.

I’m not a punching bag, or flat stone. I’m a living person whose understanding floods monstrously like gaping, tumorous people. I am gaping, tumorous people. And I think of you sometimes. I thought of you when he was inside me, punching me like a hole puncher. And when I heard your calamitous heaving echo through the single walkway. I think of you when I’m hating you, when I’m annoyed by you, when I’m considering you, when we’re saying nothing talking, when I’m waiting for or coming to you. I think about you. I don’t want closeness with you, I just want somewhere to go, all the time. I know you know I’m extraordinary. I don’t think you know about outside of extraordinary. I don’t want to fall into bad habits––that’s when I start to lie. If I don’t get enough sleep, I can’t free every person I see. 

2.

I am moving from above- to underground. The air and light around me changes. 

3.

Why is it that when I’m most emotionally unmoored it’s my identity as a girl that I turn to? The girl, she is aloneness in a room. Objects and subjects are just furniture there. I’m there. Sound is. You’re not. The girl there is perceivable and honest for this reason. Her body is in a room. She’s questions alone. I was in that room once. I turn to those songs because they’re the ones I listen to alone. Leave me to her. Lead me to her. I’m there. They’re only for me as they’re only in me. I’m that room I’m a girl listening to alone songs amidst free time I’m me. This is basically a tautology. I love people, I do. And I’m that girl. Maybe there’s another one. But there’s always that room. The one beneath my feet, beneath my hands. And there they are. Going with you now. When I’m in that room I don’t forget. I’m just remembering anything. No one thinks I’m weird because there isn’t anyone there. Or the only no one is me. I’m not-me in that room. I’m the presence of the absence of others. I’m made of myself. You survey a transparent globe from a courteous, rumbling distance. I glance you from afar, my budget. And when you put your hand where it belongs, me, I get so snowy inside. I’m the holidays in that room. My hands grasp my feet, the floor. I’m the ceiling. You insulate me. I go to the room where there is only sound a movement and alone, girl. I play my favorite songs and take off all my clothes, paint my nails, fold my clothes, do my eyebrows, roll out, apply tiger balm, journal, watch a movie, clean up, stretch, read, write. I do fucking everything in that room. YOU CAN’T COME IN. I am trying to save the world in all caps.