what a privilege it is to be able to process your emotions through live art. among the dead made me understand theater.
just like the scene in the car. as we left the library, we fought on the drive. I raise my voice and we both think of your job. yes. something talked over in the stairwell (me) and outside your house (you), and then dropped forever. I never remember where the hurt lives until the excavation starts.
it used to hurt me so bad. violence? trust? wanting no power, no, none at all?
the last time we were here we were crazy, sexed and exhausted. I get my salad. you go to the car to cry. we take turns folded into the other’s lap under the eclipse and it hurts so completely we can’t stop.
I am pushing against the limits of where I can go mentally. when you think of the future, it’s your future you invite me to. No,
is that too selfish?
something I always think about: biologically, you’d like it more if I didn’t. I would never hurt you by telling you that.
fuck, this play hurt me so bad. it says remember the gravity.
war; military men
commitment to the future
sex and corollary, maternity
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