Susan Wingood

Convicts and the Damn Pool of Desire Read: tl.gd/n_1soeudj

Forget these halls.

I don’t trust ya, yeah. Don’t know if I can. Factory flaw, I s’pose.

Bit embarrassing, if you think about it. Hoping someone will notice. Wanting someone to notice. Draw inwards, like a big girl. Come on. All that conditioning told you it’s better to not be a burden. Now stick to it, yeah.

Patheticism suits you. Lean into it.

My head hurts from the tears. It is a feeling I am used to, but I do not welcome it home.

To what do I owe this displeasure of deep introspection.

I like my diamonds raw, uncut. Vulnerable, and earthen.

It’s a secret, a truth just for me. Why would I share that. And with you, nonetheless. We hardly know each other. We haven’t rubbed souls enough for you to see me raw and beating.

But I know I should let the feelings rise and fall. Rise and fall. That’s what they say. Let the memories slither past, leaving their goo from their clammy fingers dripping from your cheeks.

Expect a manifesto of banal misery. Or don’t. Can’t say what it is. Tired hope. Haggard bitterness. Rejected joy.

Returned, forgotten. Something, somehow, it will be.

Also frogs.

Ya know wha' summers are good fer? Cults an' ant hills.

This is me shot in da dark. *Flicks her pistachio shells at innocent bystanders. She's all dimples and batted eyes when the occasional passerby looks up in confusion from a stray shell stuck in their hair.*

Gettin' everyone fed uuuup!

Heard tha' you were talkin' shit, an' didn't think tha' I would hear it!