That's Not My Name That's Not My Name That's Not My Name

March 16 2009.

Someone with long swinging hair and dark lips and eyes gave me a large bottle and said, why not? I drank until I tasted bitter and we jangled and bangled and ripped up the floor, hands over our heads. The Friends are the cutest! We’re all bopping around, little girls on bigger boy’s shoulders. She’s swaying with a wine bottle. Since the summer ended, my lips have touched lips. I can count to 26! Shall I stop there? My little book only happens to be black.

Later, the keyboardist asked me for a light, and I snapped out a flame. The lead singer said, hey man, why not ask me? The keyboardist said, well you’re not as pretty as ---, and I glowed beside the lights in the dark.

As Bruiser lay on the ground with a boy and gazed upwards with a cigarette dangling from her pointing fingers and said, There’s my pentagon! That’s Cancer’s. No, it belongs to me.

I feel pummeled and profoundly exhausted. Overworked, overdanced, overwhelmed. I want nothing more than to fall into bed and sleep for a hundred years.