Are you stupid? Well, yes and no.

I have noticed the proclivity of those who know me, to talk to me like I'm three. You know that voice? The one a parental type reserves for a shifty-looking child when they're trying to understand why the dog no longer has hair on one half of his body. It's a mixture of incredulity, bemusement and the overriding feeling that it's their responsibility to be your voice of reason since events clearly indicate you do not have one. And when said child is actually 26 years old and a peer, there tend to creep in delicate harmonics of superiority and disdain. And for the most part, I get it.

I'm impetuous and often regrettably so. Outrage comes to me as easy and frequently as total amnesia in my interactions with people and even if I can get a good, solid grudge going, it's nothing a superior meal won't magic away. When I'm around people who make me feel vulnerable, I take to my heels and I don't even mean that figuratively. I am pointlessly defiant. In fact, currently I'm not talking to a friend because of a conversation about hypothetical fall outs and I resented how sure he was that I'd give in first. Mind, we haven't actually fallen out, I'm just making my thoroughly unnecessary point. And you see I realise this, but I still won't give in because then he will be right hypothetically and I'd rather rip my nails out than have someone be so sure they know me. Even though they probably do. With me still? Oh and the hair, I just do not have sensible hair. So I get why when people regard me with a certain sense of "Here's a nice project to take on/ befriend".

But. A chubby, hairy But.

I wouldn't have it any other way, believe it or not. My mistakes are what I like about myself the most. They always leave me with laughs (when enough time has elapsed), stories and scars both emotional and physical (Best not to happen upon a sleeping dog, if you didn't already know that) that I'm very fucking sentimental about. We're always cautioned about The Hard Way, this supposedly terrible fate that befalls those who don't have the good sense to have good sense. Well I've been there a time or thousand and if today, I know exactly why I should not attempt to straighten my own hair with strong chemical products 'For Professional Use only', or why I will never again attempt to possess a man I love, or why I will always hold my peace most when I'm viscerally angry, it's because of The Hard Way.

So if my laboratory lifestyle should make you feel relieved about the organisational miracle that is your reality, so be it. I have just a few things I need to tick off my list when it comes down to it. That I am alive, with my various appendages in working order, having managed it with a little bit of grace, a little kindness and with no serious physical or emotional cost to anyone/anything I know. That I do my job well and I am liked well enough by a sufficient number of people who matter to me, and animals. And that every once in a while, I too can become transcendent, whether witnessed by another or just during a long, solitary walk, where I am perfect and godlike for a few moments before once again I am not, and I return to my bungling ol' self.

In short, I'm doing serviceably well, thank you.

Sink.

What were bulwarks once, have turned obstacles.
What were convictions, have become weaknesses.
Unscathed and alone.

It was lovely, it was awful. It was that kind of feeling.

Crrrkfloopp, the rusty hinges run headlong into the bouncy silence of flesh.
You peel the door off them, and I schlep those fingers across a thousand miles of pain, to my face.
It's settled then, there's worse ways for chewed nails to look.
My digits are having a heart attack, they're flushed with a hot, biting, terrible ache,
one is turning a colour whose name I'd hate myself if I knew.
 
My forbearance is exemplary, it's this big haired girl whose making me look bad -
holding out her hand to you like that, crying those chubby, kindergarten tears.
Stop it, you girl, you stupid girl! What's he going to do exactly, tell the door it's been bad?
Stupid girl, you bring our hand back right this minute and say you're fine.
No! NO! Don't you da...

Iced, caressed and splayed across your heart, my fingers covered by yours.
I am collected to you, nose to the blue squares on the inside of your collar,
lips smooshed against your buttons - why do you keep so much rubbish in your shirt pocket?
You're attempting to hum.

Where is that door? I want to hug it.
But later. Not now. God, not now.