(no subject)
I love that the pinky on my right hand pops when I flick it the right way
That the chainmail bracelet on my left wrist means more to me than the most expensive piece of jewelry I own,
That my nails are growing out again, not sharp, but long enough to file into points if I wanted:
maybe next week.
I love that I have the tenacity to write a whole paper in a day and get a decent grade
That my hair is a mess and curling wild today
That my scars on my arm-neck-back are pinker from last week's sunburn.
I love that my desk is equally cluttered with owls and wolves as it is make-up and medicine
That a wreath of flowers hangs from my lamp and I can wear it and smell eucalyptus at will,
That I worry about my fish as to check on her every half-hour I'm in my room
And she, out of instinctive yearning for the next meal, always comes out to look properly annoyed.
I love that I am huggable and rarely if ever turned down when I offer my embrace,
That my room is full of instrments from around the world
That one of the most satisfying sound-feelings I know is flicking a cloth fan open and shut.
I love that my wall has a water-color painting we made when he was sick
that my bedside has more family-of-the-heart photos than bloodkin
that my stomach rolls over the edge of my jeans and I'm okay with that for tonight.
I love that I don't define the colour of my own eyes
That my horoscope is a building block
That I need you.
Want you?
No.
That I love you. Which goes far beyond any definition that want or need could provide.
I love you.
All of you.
Be in my life and I will open my eyes and speak to you what I love:
about me
about you
about That which means nothing to anyone else
But us.