what becomes of us
i thought i understood it, that i could grasp it, but i didn’t, not really. only the smudgeness of it; the pink-slippered, all-containered, semi-precious eagerness of it. i didn’t realize it would sometimes be more than whole, that the wholeness was a rather luxurious idea. because it’s the halves that halve you in half. i didn’t know, don’t know, about the in-between bits; the gory bits of you, and the gory bits of me.
