A Week in the Air #idunno

Friday: Rewrite my dating profile as a black magic healing spell I’ve sung before.

Saturday: Ruminations on schedule.

Do you remember the time I tried to like beer? You figuratively held my hair when I refused to leave the toilet.

You made out with the cute, large-breasted woman. I was bleary, but it was hot and I’m still not mad. Eventually, you convinced me your bed was both safe and comfortable to pass out. I distrusted all beds in those days; too many nightmares.

I Can Tell You About My Attachment Disorder

their voices echo

when i imagine a life





  my cowardice:

white boy asked me out

    i said yes

    when the boy on the phone

was more interesting

but they said

     “You better not

     bring a black boy home.”

too invested

to hurt you

so i wonder about a girl


    out loud

they offer a deadline

 for when i have to leave

 kicked out

but my husband

he passes


we skip the wedding

     and i get to skip


 that change nothing

when they

don’t remember

any of it


since i left

Sunday: Willingly talk about how I am out breaking hearts. Wonder again, when is it okay to find Zon and ask the burning question. “When you told me I would leave a trail of broken hearts, did you include my own?” I am hungry and no one has ever made me better spicy blackened mushrooms and chicken.

Attend a dialogue workshop.

Monday: Start the night before with hourly checks on the eclipse. Fret I haven’t collected poems for this week. Hours of reading goth romance trash.

Tuesday: We are boxing everything as we talk about the third reich, yiddish poetry, and quantum physics. We’re stripped down to our raw form, how our friendship is best. You know I am thinking about running, even as you are wishing you could’ve stayed. This is the process and you’re waiting for me to write the story.

Wednesday: I remember this conversation with you and I am rewriting it with my silence left out.

“There are cameras all over my building except in the laundry room. There are cables hanging from the ceiling there, waiting for someone to finish.”

“Except the laundry room? That’s the number one place in a building for a woman to be raped.”

“The only access is through the closed off courtyard. It’s still pretty safe.”

“For a rape room.”

“The number one place is her bedroom. All the worst stories I know happened in private spaces, save one. I don’t want cameras in my apartment, so I’m fine with this setup.”

Then I returned to Yiddish poetry and reflexive pronouns. Why do I know this much about Yiddish without knowing Yiddish?

* Title reference: A day in the air – zines by adita

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