Fern

I think I curled my fingers.
I didn't mean to curl my fingers.
I wanted to curl my fingers.
I liked curling my fingers.
I hope you didn't notice me curling my fingers.
I don't even know if I curled my fingers.

I am a fern at your back.

I have been carefully constructed for the purpose of suspense--sulfur lipped burning down to blackened fingertips--that is, I am made for it; not necessarily to survive it.


There is a sentence I cannot keep from replaying in my head. I do not know if it has a serious bone (word?) in its body, but it's fucking me up. Bad. I don't think it was supposed to have meaning out of context, but fuck, it does. Did you know it would? You couldn't. Nobody could. But I'll say it now: I've got a mean history with those words. I've written stories (well, almost written stories) about those words.
Fuckfuckfuck.
I can't even remember how it was said. I have a shitty memory, and I hate forgetting things like this. But I know it was said, because now I'm fucked, and that's the only explanation for it--it must have been said.

Hm.

I think something is off. But I can't put my finger on it, and I think I don't give a fuck. I have never been so comfortable. I have never found such pleasure in nearnesses.

I have never been this person before. That is to say, I have always been this person, but never in full. Only in potential; always in potential.

And yes, this is ending on a gush-about-loving-my-friends note. It just...it feels so comfortable. I can make faces. I can move. And I am moved against.

luff.