1976

Rubbish

Sometimes rubbish is just rubbish.

God is just God.

and love should not hurt like this.

Your looks shouldn’t feel like this.

Your hands should not be in my dress like this.

If God is real, where is he when I need him to get me out of this?

to get you out of me, to get your dirty hands into the ground where they belong, to spit into your face and call you by that name that you hate.

If God is real, why does this keep happening to me?

Why are you still over me? Why are your hands stained with the mud on my clothes? Why is your smile so big and close to my face that I can feel your breath?

If God is real, rubbish should just be rubbish; rubbish should not feel gross; rubbish should not feel like the only thing that I could be; rubbish should just be that man, telling me that I'm too kind, too mature, too big, too for my age.

Rubbish shouldn't feel like me at 13.

Dirty

I touch myself with my bare dirty hands, feeling the zest of the grass onto me. Sometimes I wish it was your tongue, your raspy and messy tongue all over me.

I touch myself, thinking about you, thinking about what we could not be, and thinking about what is wrong with me.

Just thinking so deep into my thoughts, deep diving into the idea that I have of you in my silly little brain, in my messy and dirty brain.

That brain you called “clever”, but it's just perverted, is the mud covering it, the mud with your big words that I cannot understand, the words which tell me that this is not real.

Gaze

Sometimes I noticed how he looks at me, wondering how I am seeing the world and how I am seeing the little things, and he laughs, shrinks his eyes, and says, "You still have the same eyes… just like when you were little." My heart hurts because I know he’s not just wondering; he’s desiring seeing everything else, just like me.

Maybe he's trying to become a little kid again, become naive and silly. Seeing the clouds and finding them a form, having a perspective, another way to see the world, another way to see me, more than just a little girl.

Car seat headrest, like the band

Always in the back seats, never in copilot, never looking at you directly from your side, always looking at you like it was prohibited from the retrovisor window. We do eye contact many times; I'm trying to not get caught, but you are making it really hard, and suddenly… you smile. I feel trapped between all the people in the car and us. I gasp for air, hitting my head on the headrest. And I look at you again; your look is different because I am not shy this time; my harmful smile caught you.