Seems like I can’t stop. My best guess is that you’re close. Because I’ve been dancing in the rain all night and the moon says that she’s been planning this reunion since I was born. You were seven I think. Staring at the mountains burning, trying to figure me out. How can there be this much water in the middle of the desert? So the pretty boys could dress up and play golf, you thought. Then you thought this was all fucking absurd. But when you ran downstairs to spread the word, the table was covered in flesh and everyone had already eaten. It was your turn to swallow. It was your turn to murder your imagination and surrender your creative impulse to the great scheme of devastation. You ran back upstairs to grab your camera. You figured if you could just capture the moment, you could use it as evidence when you were trying to puke it up later. You could get lucky, pinpoint the moment they shoved those ideals in you. A couple of decades too late, its still the rest of your life saved. You could still rip them out. You’d only have to remember the picture. Where did you bury it? Why did you try to destroy the proof? It was treacherous, what was done to you. You were perfectly capable of building your kingdom, full of love and color; you never needed their names for anything. You didn’t need their sickening conversation. You didn’t need their bullying. You already knew how stunning you are. You already knew every inch of your body held beauty and strength in every way. Nothing needed growing into. Nothing needed erasing. You could touch the earth and bring her back to life. You could wait for years for your love to heal. You were patient and gentle, silly and fond of the moon. You knew you could see what know one else could. So you closed your eyes tight and waited for me to be born. I was fighting every second of it. I wanted to stay warm. I didn’t want to sacrifice my love in being someone known. I didn’t want to be a girl. I didn’t want to wear a dress or have a party. I had nothing to celebrate. Death was all around me. I wanted to sit in the dark with a guitar and write. I wanted to run away. I wanted to find you. I wanted to cry. I was always crying. I was always fighting my way out. When I finally escaped, it was only in 3d, the scene played on repeat for 30 years. Every time I tried to build a family, I would watch my love surrender to the sickness of this nasty game. The rules made me vomit. The sun reigned mercilessly over the oblivious bodies of the women I adored. They moved quickly. They worked hard. They wanted my freedom. But no matter how I tried, I could never give it to them. I took off all my stupid cloths and dropped to my knees, I told her to take everything. She tried. But it always rejected her insides and returned home to me. I couldn’t save anybody. You were getting restless. I felt like I could reach out and touch you. But I was still on the other side of the country. You finally found yourself under the night sky again. You drank enough wine to tell me your life story, but your tongue was doing all the talking. There was no beginning or end. You were just saying anything at all to fill the unbearable silence of sitting beside me. You didn’t want to explain. You didn’t have the words. You only wanted to touch me. You rested your hand on my thigh and leaned. You weren’t falling. You were trying to become something else. You were trying to remember me. You were trying to find the moment. You excused yourself politely and ran upstairs. You had to pee was an aversion. You ran to your room and pulled every picture out of the closet until you found the one you needed to see. You came back down and tried to explain. But you were sick and your own voice was deceiving you. Touch was the only honest thing left in your entire body. So you stood me up and directed me under moon. You said I could see everything that you could if I was positioned perfectly. I took you to our room and lay naked on the bed. How do you want me baby? I’m bored. You’re aching to trace the picture with your tongue. Why aren’t we fucking! Why aren’t we surrounded by each other’s love? You explain that timing and the position of my body was just as important as lighting. My need was supposed to be captured. The art of creating is displaying love that hasn’t been released yet. It’s a buildup of energy. Its refusing the sickness and mocking the outcome until the imagined is staring you back in my reflection of your love. It’s easy, you promise. My only job is to lie still and believe you are lying beside me. The moment shatters. By the time you find my body, I’m already asleep. The picture is driving you crazy.