What we are.

I want to be weightless. I mean that in a very literal, very anorexic sense. I'd like to step on your toes and not hurt you because I weigh nothing at all. I mean that I'd like to appease the media, in a way. If I were weightless, I'd have achieved everything I'm told that femininity is: nothingness. Yeah, I'd have achieved everything I'm told femininity is: everything. If I were weightless, I'd be both nothing and everything at once -- like the nothingness, the weightlessness would make me beautiful, and the beauty would make me everything -- beauty would make me youthful and evil and god-like, and beauty is what I need to be, I suppose, because from what I'm told, I can never be the president, and it's important to wear make-up whenever I go out. I should be a size two with a bachelor's degree and 2.5 children and one dog by my early thirties. With weightlessness, I could speak only when spoken to.

I am not, however, completely irrational. I understand that weightlessness in a literal and anorexic sense is unachievable, and then I remember that I don't care about the appeasement of the media much. You're like, "Appeasement of the media?" and I'm like, "Whatever."

But I'd still like to be weightless in a metaphorical sense, you know? I'd like to wake up without heavy boots, and when I walk, I'd like to be so perfectly weightless that I'm actually just floating half an inch off the ground. It's weightless like the suspension in the space between black and white, between right and wrong, between awake and asleep. I want to be weightless like feathers are weightless, and then the wind will catch on my hipbones and spin me around, and we will dance together, the wind and I.

So just listen to me for a second, okay? Okay? Read my lips, okay? I am not running away. This is not a defense mechanism. I am not avoiding life or reality or my feelings. I'm looking my own feelings, my own life, my own reality in the eye (and they are mine, you know) and saying, "Yeah, I'll face you." Yeah, I'll face them. I will strip them down to their own terrifying nakedness, and when they are nothing, I will be nothing. Nothing in a good way. Nothing in a metaphorical weighlessness.

I know how to get there, and I don't want to have anymore heavy boots conversations. I like it up here. I like it here when I have wings. Up here, it smells like sleep.

"He's got his Ph.D. in poetry."
"That sucks for poems."
All my love,
Addy