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It might look like I'm asking
Clare Johnson

I hate to start things out with a question,

but where has that fucking








boy got to










We should say the lovely and the we will make it better, I say say things like you think they should be, does he live in a farmhouse cause I think his friends and their basements. I don't have it clear; in my head we all bend and fold like sometime athletes.



If you live far enough outside of town, there is still no river. In fact, there is less of that. The quiet and orange, and any white could look white it's so anywhere else. If you live away and town, if you outside of and, you likely have two stories frame, a spit across and catch it view, a lot of space for sure but more of the same. The land taking a nap, the land closing its eyes on you like it wants to be slapped. You slap me and I'll go on laughing -- we know each other's names already, act reasonable it's clear we're just a dusty version of ourselves.












When I met him I knew it was no big deal.

We're not us as such, you set us in the dust and look. What happens, you know. I'd tell you my name but I don't think he cares. I'd tell you about his eyelashes but sometimes when I'm walking I feel my hair falling out like candy.


When I met him, I knew I suppose. Though I'd say no big deal.





The real question is, is the house really white? Or does it fade with the weather, when I visit I want to press my finger to the paint like a sponge. We live outside. I don't expect you to understand.

fucking boy got to, fucking. Where the fuck.

It's late and later and I don't care if you're you.

It's later and fuck. As if I wore makeup.












I love you like loud music.



I love you like sleeping in on Saturdays.







I love you like I fuck you.





I fuck you like, love you like





When you live outside of town, your house happens to be old and cluttered. The usual parents, or at least one I think, or something, or siblings who would cut your hair in a second (the gulping cries of someone who is sullen without knowing why; don't be stupid of course I'm all right). Maybe you sleep with someone sometimes, maybe you really should get glasses someday. Perhaps we should mention friends' basements, but to me cheap carpeting always says oh well oh well.

Nothing's that urgent.

















I feel my hair falling out, I suck his thumb like candy for a

When you live far away.







I didn't want to start this with a question, but where

I wash my hands of the situation. You can sleep where you

But where       Did you never write his name.

You can sleep where you















When I first saw him, he was picking at his fingers, frowning like saying you there, nails, I'm not so sure yeah, so sure about you, where are we going cause I just don't know. His hair was black and falling in fingers, of course I want to touch it, smile like I thought he was some girl. No big deal, but I walked over anyways, something new I thought. Shake hands or something in that kind of way, no shit man, you live outside too?


I say where the fuck. Where is he?

It's not like eyelashes can melt into dirt and grit.


When I first saw him, he was walking towards me and I bit pinky expecting to taste my skin

















it hurts

it does not

it hurts

well i'm sorry




I love you like pine needles get into the basement in winter.

I love you like sweeping them out the door.





I love you like they collect in the corners, like dirt fucking pine needles.







When I was young I'd play basketball with my dad. He, like leather and button up shirts in the dirt, but then he'd slap my back, run his hands over the ball, swear when I scored. Well I'll be fucked. My mom says damned. I'll be damned. My mom says don't you ever say that dirty dirty, damned is plain well good enough you fucker. Still my game (we'll play it, I'll tell you if you ask). I wear a hat to cover my hey do you mind if I touch your hair?









Fuck man, don't look at me like a you know what. You walking towards me, my pinky in my teeth, you smile like I'm fucking slinky, like my torso's something you could wrap your arms around.
























I play along, pretend we're just gonna be guys and shit and shit, but I know the truth right then. I know we will always be boys.






I say it hurts like a girl, the high pitch of come back you I didn't mean it. Pouting, as if he wore makeup.





When the town and you live, well you know where by now you fucking should at least, all this time. You occasionally tire of your sister's showtunes, the pickup you share with your brothers gets dirty there is nothing much to be done so. And how many dogs are there now? No one thinks to scrub the house, things rot in the yard of course, can I come over to your place man I'll bring a change of clothes. I am so hungry, I am so sick of washing white clothes as if they were just that white.




Where the fuck has he

like always

Our son, you know, that one I've always wondered but

like how he always










When I met him, I admit it I knew I wanted to touch his forehead.








When you live far away enough, when it's outside the town. We realize someday that our father's shirts will never fit us, we remain thin and angry for always, your eyelashes much longer than his, we bend and fold like something that can only bend and fold. The surprise on your mother's lips when you pull your posture straight -- oh you, I didn't think you













that fucking got to.

Did you know where he fucking

a sleeping bag (for show, I guess)

underwear (ok mom, I'm not an idiot for fuck's sake)


a comb? well you were wrong.

(running half the way over, the middle half, then brake and it's ok, no nothing)

And I'm ready for you, fucker.

Yeah yeah, you know I'm fucking yours.




















When you live out and town is far it hurts to turn your neck, a basketball sounds like the loudest ever thing, like yelling hey the phone's for you asshole and give it here you motherfucker goddammit boys if you don't shut your mouth. The screen door slamming just a second sooner than you thought, oh you finally oiled that sucker honey, I would've said thank you but. A basketball in the dirt that dusty thump, as if it hit you right there, as if it shook your bones and all that silent swallowing.

Spit it out baby, if you can just

like candy










You're right, ok. Sometimes it hurts. It's not like we wear makeup.


My hair is leaving in leaps and bounds. I'm thinking of fistfuls, I fear it will follow me, that they will finger tufts of curls and know for sure where I've been.






You know this isn't anything.

You know I'm not like that.

I know

I know

We're not you know.



I love you like you know I'll never say it but we look like that sometimes no matter what.

I love you like pine needles were a stupid thing to say anyways.

Like they'll tell me I should've known.


black hair holding on to his jaw     like my fingers

They'd cut it, I think. I remember screaming.

When you were little?

I mean whatever.

I know. It's only sleeping here.








When I met him, hey you know we might as well at least be friends.

you know.



Yeah I know we might as well.

Do you remember when we met?



























Give me my fucking shirt

It's fucking dirty your fucking shirt

What do you expect, you gonna clean it up or something

If you're nice to me maybe If you fucking clean mine

How bout if I


Well I don't         yeah maybe I

And if I

Well maybe I

And we could

Ok. I said ok.








When you live outside far enough, the white so silent and seated you never think to say yellow. There's a road, sure, if that's what you want yes the dirt is really hard enough see we bounce it up down just like that. As if driveways off the highway were paved, as if my room was in the basement and you wore lipstick like anything. I never want to cut my hair, they used to chase me till I








Do you think they sleep with

      Hey I don't want to be a

but just where the fuck       I have to put my foot

      I have to call it what it





















When he yawns he closes his eyes, squints. For longer than you'd think. Rubs his eyes and shakes out his fingers like they're all wet or something. Sometimes he pulls at one of his looser curls, too, like he's pretending his eyes were open the whole time. Like he doesn't need to know whether I was looking.







I didn't know you wore glasses.


They look funny.

Shut up.

Would you take a lock of my hair? I can tell I'm losing it anyways -- don't look at me like we'll never change.


















I'd say his name but I don't think it matters. We were always athletes all, if we didn't fold and slender they'd never see us bending. We slip down to the basement say I'm sorry Mrs. mother other I must have forgotten to leave my shoes at the

shit I only sleep where I     only sleep with, shit we only

Yeah you know I'm yours.

The question is, I want to press my finger to the dirt like a sponge. I want to my finger and find a white house underneath it, I don't really care if he comes but when you live away and where the fuck. His lids crash down as if I cared more, I think I am becoming bald at this point. I'd tell you his name, but we don't even whisper, it hurts and we say sorry at this point. At this point, in the dark and god it's always sunny. Perhaps we should basement, but I and white house. Can you sleep where you




The question is, where will we


He just fucking can't. It's that simple. Tell him he can't.


The question is of course, our skin will grow sunspots and thin, we will feel the rubber ball beneath our fingers but we can never wear his shirts, we will never lose the eyelashes we will always know that something basemented deep inside so what if we almost thought the house could be white. But fuck it, love, you know we're just a dusty version.


oh you, I didn't think you

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