Meowing
The man in my DMs has short hair I want to run my fingers through. I have long hair, midway down my back. I want him to rip my clothes off.
It’s early days in our friendship, and it’s gotten sexually explicit very quickly. The first day we exchanged songs we both loved, the gateway stuff, and I got drunk at some point around 7 and said a whole bunch of things I deleted before going to bed because I knew I didn’t want to overthink it. Don’t worry you didn’t say anything problematic :) he replies the next day, and I believe him.
I’m not sure who made the first move. I called him heartthrob and then he called me princess and it was all over from there.
It’s a special form of insanity, this early crushing. You have a touch-starved tummy-ache where you haven’t had enough to eat but you also have no appetite but wish you did so you’re constantly biting your lower lip like a little bitch. Your stomach and heart yips. Your eyes feel manic. You want to say how was your day and tell me everything, what your face feels like, what did you eat, what does the city smell like, I can hear cars but you’re also afraid to confront the possibility of the whole-consuming truth, the fact that what you really want to ask is what do you want to know about me, because I’d tell you everything and let me breathe in the cigarette you’ve been smoking because I want to live in part of the air you inhale. What do you want to know
I don’t want to get my heart broken. He doesn’t either. So instead you end up writing shit like this:
If I wasn’t an internet girl on his phone, I’d give him the full length of my body. The first time I went to Japan was a warm September, too hot for any September, the kind of weather that makes a girl wear short sundresses and stand out like an American. There’s a a lo-fi jazz bar where they serve you drinks in fruit-shaped cups with ridiculous straws, Bar Orchard in Ginza. That’s what I’d wear for him. That’s where I’d take him.
I’d tell him that my neighbor’s name is Gabriella and that she’s growing roses for the first time in San Francisco this year. That we live on top of the hill, over by the pretty park that everyone takes photos in front of. That everyday I go to the dog park and one time I lay down on the grass and a dog peed on my best jacket, but that the dog was so fucking cute that it was still a good day. That the roses are slightly pink, soft, just like me.
And I want to ask him: what happened? Give me every memory. Tell me what you’re afraid of. If you can hold my hand. Hold my hand, then burn it into me.
It’s early days, the days before you’re torn or afraid. Sometimes the truth splits you, and all you can do is meow like a motherfucker.