The other

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Today is a pretty skirt sad face slow coffee day
It is cold corridors and un-shawled shoulders
New pen buckets made out of old things
Old faces with new lines
To be a poet today is to take words and make them be different
Make them dance like sad beautiful awkwardness
Make them comfortable like calcifying bike chains, where gears click into place with a sudden thump.
Its frustrating that I have to be angsty to be able to write
I'm reading a novel at the moment
Where the author recalls an affair she had with a thirty year old man when she was 15
And I think it was so she could be a writer
She threw her body into a man
And let it write her
Just like I threw my body into men
And hoped it would write me
I realise that trying to write something
Without an other
Is trying to describe me without the border of my cells
Confusing and dialectical and ambiguous.