enter, woman, 30

bad poetry is about as good as it gets. I believe that. and I know you don’t want more of the referential stuff. I know you don’t need to know what I’m talking about. I know that my voice, in french, too high. I know, normally, remarkable timbre. telling my friend about my latest exploits, she says “you’re singing about it!” I want to say “this is how I talk” but I am singing about it. the way I carry on when I’m comfortable with someone or on caffeine or mushrooms and on a few occasions some combination, I know it is charming. I know you don’t think of it has having given up on me since you know I’ll always find my way. I know it’s true but I hate stating it clearly for the reader. it takes a lot, you know, to be like this. still, I thought I was carrying on in the sensual shadow of behavioral mystery. I see now that most of my acquaintances know where I’m headed. I know that I cannot perform desperation or helplessness, not because it’s so far from the truth but because I find it shameful. I know that while you cannot completely eradicate shame from sex you can make it part of the fun. but you have to be careful—the worst scripts have been written.