Ian 17

Ian,

It slips and I want to die.  Needles need a groove, and what would you know about it, unless from just being a boy?  No, I see you.  

Your eyes get big, hands full of smears of my blood, spiraling down your arms.  I know you're wild.  I see how.  Your eyes get big and they meet with mine and we find the deepest ravines to fall into.  I see how it looks when you can, I see you see it in me.  God, I want you in me.  

It slips and I want to die.  

I used to be a gypsy girl.  Just that, with nothing in me but impressions of my grandfather that I had a talent for making people believe.  I feel you, in the space I am, laying so close and sharp, and breaking into me.  You want to know the truth?  I have all these songs about the truth and Matthew...they might not mean anything.  

I used to be just a gypsy girl.  Anything I learned, I stole from bloodlines not mine.  The back of my hair feels like a boy.  I wonder if you like it.  Don't slip.  Don't slip.  Do this, please.  Stay sharp, stay deep.  

I could creep over you, here, in the dark place that I can match you, match your depth with my acceptance, your speed with my resistance, when I see you.  When I can see you.  

I used to be just a gypsy girl, and then I drew something into me and it made me this.  This idea that is a knife and a wound at once.  I would have thought myself a monster if I thought myself to be alone, but I'm not.  I gave this part of myself to you, the one that Generates.

Fuck, Matthew, I'm laughing.  I'm laughing.  I was so worried you wouldn't want to marry me someday.  I didn't realize we already are.  Here, I didn't know.  It was for you.  It was for you.  It was always for you.  In tandem, I recognize you and see against that, myself.  

Love,
Annik