you write.
you sit on your couch with Paris Is Burning playing on the flat screen that still has not been mounted by your roomate.
You write about a girl you saw on the street, on the corner of 9th and mission.
She was crying, real loud, wearing a purple and green plaid shirt and large reflective black sunglasses. She did not appear
to be on crack. She was too young, too clean, and too well dressed to be sitting on the pavement.
She said something to you that sounded more like an audible screaming yawn. Saliva strung between her bared teeth.
The cuffs of her shirt came almost past her hands. She tucked her face back into her chest.
You thought "I am going to write about this"
You thought "There's also that chalk drawing on market right by church street, that shows what seems to be a mythic indian warrior in pastel purples and blues, that's about 6 feet wide and 4 feet tall, I should write about that too."
Then the americano you just drank kicked in and you got free. you called your housemate to tell him you love him.
You texted your exboyfriend to say hello, you almost dialed your mother.
You write all this down. Now.
In your mickey mouse pajama bottoms and no shirt.
On the screen Venus Xtravaganza says something about her small hand fitting into the larger hand of one of her johns.
You write that you almost stopped to talk to that girl, not just because you were concerned bc it would be a good story.
But that made you sad. The instant reduction of her to a story. To an anecdote. And honsetly, you were scared to go near her.
"She cries
on the corner of 9th and Mission
wearing a purple and green plaid button up
the cuffs coming well past her wrists
making her appear smaller than she is
her knees pulled up close to her chest
her head tilts back with a wide mouth
saliva shining on her lips and teeth
mucous coming out of her nose.
My exboyfriend used to have these crying jags
and he'd sit there on the end of the bed his forearms
resting on his knees, head down
just crying, with snot poring out of his nose
making a puddle on the floor.
I used to gag, while he cried.
I'd sit in the chair by the desk,
I'd offer him a tissue or handkerchief.
I used to think "this mucous makes you harder to love."
She says something to me, mabye.
It could be me or the other guy walking by
it's not even words. more of a cry.
At first it could be heart break. But now
it seems like a mental problem.
There's no drug marks
no sunken cheeks
no pock marks on her face.
This could be me. Don't you think?
I almost stop. to talk to her, maybe to pull her in to some kinda hug
her limp greased blond hair pressed to my chin, the almost stubble.
Her small frame tucked inside my larger one, my crouched form hiding her from the street
from the misty sky, from other passing people. I can't see her eyes though, behind
those glasses. Instead i keep walking unfazed.
Caffeine pushing me to make inappropriate phone calls to ex boyfriends
despite day time minutes "
Venus Xtravaganza is dead. She was killed before the movie was released. They talk about it in the film. She was found under a bed after three days of deadness in a hotel, the kind one rents by the hour. She was tiny. She was "real". She could pass. Or she could've. The phone rings, and it's the wash and fold. Your clothes are done. This is the last of te $50 you had in your wallet. The last of your last $50.
you sit on your couch with Paris Is Burning playing on the flat screen that still has not been mounted by your roomate.
You write about a girl you saw on the street, on the corner of 9th and mission.
She was crying, real loud, wearing a purple and green plaid shirt and large reflective black sunglasses. She did not appear
to be on crack. She was too young, too clean, and too well dressed to be sitting on the pavement.
She said something to you that sounded more like an audible screaming yawn. Saliva strung between her bared teeth.
The cuffs of her shirt came almost past her hands. She tucked her face back into her chest.
You thought "I am going to write about this"
You thought "There's also that chalk drawing on market right by church street, that shows what seems to be a mythic indian warrior in pastel purples and blues, that's about 6 feet wide and 4 feet tall, I should write about that too."
Then the americano you just drank kicked in and you got free. you called your housemate to tell him you love him.
You texted your exboyfriend to say hello, you almost dialed your mother.
You write all this down. Now.
In your mickey mouse pajama bottoms and no shirt.
On the screen Venus Xtravaganza says something about her small hand fitting into the larger hand of one of her johns.
You write that you almost stopped to talk to that girl, not just because you were concerned bc it would be a good story.
But that made you sad. The instant reduction of her to a story. To an anecdote. And honsetly, you were scared to go near her.
"She cries
on the corner of 9th and Mission
wearing a purple and green plaid button up
the cuffs coming well past her wrists
making her appear smaller than she is
her knees pulled up close to her chest
her head tilts back with a wide mouth
saliva shining on her lips and teeth
mucous coming out of her nose.
My exboyfriend used to have these crying jags
and he'd sit there on the end of the bed his forearms
resting on his knees, head down
just crying, with snot poring out of his nose
making a puddle on the floor.
I used to gag, while he cried.
I'd sit in the chair by the desk,
I'd offer him a tissue or handkerchief.
I used to think "this mucous makes you harder to love."
She says something to me, mabye.
It could be me or the other guy walking by
it's not even words. more of a cry.
At first it could be heart break. But now
it seems like a mental problem.
There's no drug marks
no sunken cheeks
no pock marks on her face.
This could be me. Don't you think?
I almost stop. to talk to her, maybe to pull her in to some kinda hug
her limp greased blond hair pressed to my chin, the almost stubble.
Her small frame tucked inside my larger one, my crouched form hiding her from the street
from the misty sky, from other passing people. I can't see her eyes though, behind
those glasses. Instead i keep walking unfazed.
Caffeine pushing me to make inappropriate phone calls to ex boyfriends
despite day time minutes "
Venus Xtravaganza is dead. She was killed before the movie was released. They talk about it in the film. She was found under a bed after three days of deadness in a hotel, the kind one rents by the hour. She was tiny. She was "real". She could pass. Or she could've. The phone rings, and it's the wash and fold. Your clothes are done. This is the last of te $50 you had in your wallet. The last of your last $50.
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