By Zoé Bocquillon
hope is a dangerous thing for a women like me to have
it’s January
no, February
it’s February
i hate hope
it clings and disappoints
falls heavily at the back of your neck
or quietly fades behind the thin veils of busy busy days
it succumbs beneath the surface of the –
you cry in the shower
you swear at your toes (the nail is bare and little tufts of hair are sprouting )
you look ridiculous, a fool – a beautiful little fool
your pink dress, your high heels, your cardigan
romances that tear the size of your heart – its small anyways
sometimes you forget it is there, like church basements
you feel insane
no one is dancing around and the bodies come and go
quiet convulsions of your legs – revolution
you are born and you scream and the rest is the attenuation of the scream
being alone, solitude as central as it gets
never happy but content you think
anxious pleasures and pleasurable anxieties in the big morning
you think of what’s down there – the sanction of sexual gratification
sarcasm has become the condition of the truth
/categories of difference/
i love hope
it sticks to your gut and makes it all pretty
worth it
why feel shitty – when you can buy cake
you talk to the walls when you get bored – and that is sort of okay
you buy a really sweet orange, and as you peel the skin, yours warms
knowing summer is coming right back
it never left
you know, you are not sad – it’s gentle
like the green fig tree it branches out and the fat and purple figs drop
you are sitting at the crotch of the tree, you smile
you have time and hopefully time’s got you
confusion and quiet collisions – but no one cares
it’s only you and there will be no ray of sunshine
the sun is sneaky but it is you
you are the sun
