Mercy.
It all comes down to mercy.
We depend… we are dependents, hanging and hoping that the powers will be merciful.
Some of the powers love us and they’re pretty reliable but some of the powers are just fuckers.
My new clock is so loud it can drown out the beating of my heart at night.
This is a blessing.
It’s that beating heart that got me into this, caring about people, wanting them, even when I can’t do anything to make them stay, to make them okay. So many kinds of love, but they tell you if you’re not finding sexual fulfillment in fifty ways, you’d better look for a new venue.
I’m waiting for the cab so I can wait for the plane so I can wait to get home and hear… nothing.
Everything is so concrete, it’s all herehere and I need some theory to feel safe. A little distance. A way to wrap my head around my heart and keep it from taking the full impact. Cars fly through the air, and the thought-bag inflates to save you. Only sometimes it can’t save you. And I don’t even have one.
It’d be easier if I loved him, I suppose. Then we’d have our Romeo and Juliet separation, and the cruel parents could be hated, and some priest would offer an absolution. But I don’t. He’s just my friend. And I just have to wait, with all the other friends.
It is hot here, the sun’s too bright, and I have nothing left to dream with.
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Leslie Ingham is a founding member of the Portuguese Artists Colony. She is currently at work on a novel.
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