Everything seems wrong this week, my clothes for starters. I want to pack it up and put it all away, no not put away, give away, throw it in a bin that isn't going to require anything of me ever again. I'll keep the wool that's not too holey, I'll keep the strappy sandals and those pretty dresses, but the rest of it? Wrong, wrong, wrong!
I've been writing the wrong things, not untrue things but not right either, typing and penciling and reading over it again and thinking, "oh how I get to the heart of it" and opening myself or not opening myself and anyway wanting to take it all back. Wrong, wrong, wrong!
I come home to my house and smell the sticky warmth of figs ripe and overripe, hanging from the tree like bags of gold or bleeding, ripped-out hearts. I eat some and leave the rest to flout their gore. Pour it loose, there, you fruits, spill your guts. No more than I'd do. Wrong, wrong, wrong!
It's not just all this I want to change, but the beating of my lungs and the size of my heart and the way it runs around outside my body. Not just my heart, my brain too, darting off in separate directions with my body slinging itself around behind it. Wrong, wrong, wrong!
I diagnose myself; I toss the diagnoses, scoffing; I run too fast and have to walk partway back, panting, shaking my head, letting the breath catch ragged in my chest to blot out the burn below. Can I live all in the red? Can I sew myself back together? Time to change everything?
"Change everything except your loves," the writer says. I don't even know if that's right either but I look for things with which I can fall in love safely: summer, friendships, black coffee, ice cream cones with blackberries and that burn of heat that spark your tongue, children who smile at you with wide brown eyes, protagonists in novels, boys battling with swords, pedaling my bicycle slowly around my city, red and white paper lanterns hanging in a string, with tails. I won't change that, not these right things, no way.
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