#56

dear diary

I did it.

I went on a date.

Dear Diary, I am no longer a coward.

It was nice and normal. He is nice and normal.

A coffee date in the sun. Two people sitting in a park.

Normal shit.

No secret online affair.

And, as far as I know, no one has ever accused him of being an employee of a three letter agency.

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Last night I dreamt I was sitting on my balcony when the whole street (or world, I’m not sure) went pitch black. I stayed there as I watched a severed squid tentacle fall from the sky.

It was pink.

I woke up with my period.

I will probably see the nice man again.

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I lurk to see if it will hurt me.

And it does. Still sick, I suppose.

A forever burn.

How many normal dates with a nice man does it take?

Furious with the idea of being or having been A Fetish.

Of course I’m barely surprised at the skirts he’s chasing now.

The baby needs new poems, fresh blood,

break new grounds of cruelty, Libra beauty extractor

or maybe Brooklyn really is that small.

Everyone thinks his appetites are normal. No one wants to know

what happens when you don’t feed him.

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What do you do with nothing? Sorry, I mean, what do I do with nothing? Spring with no reason to celebrate.

All I want is better luck.

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