DAY 45-46

I like remixes. And I have to because I make so many mistakes but haven’t found the cure for me. Original intentions are great and all, but sometimes I’m standing opposite your open eyes shooting my heart rays at your ocular bone only to discover they didn’t make it half a centimeter out my head. You weren’t reflecting my hopes to rest my skin in your sheets. Hadn’t hit back at my hand when I tried to hold yours as we ran across highways, heroic leaping over humans. My heart’s anemic as hell and I never knew it. All arrythmia in the club, never apreggios. I sing my song and I think I have a great voice. We all sound amazing in echo chambers. I shout, I swear. But I’m 3 decibels, max. And I make mistakes when I hear me. Like I even heard me the primero play of my pain. I cuddle, but I think sometimes my nuzzles come out like heabutts. And I bruise even when I’m trying to be sweet. I can’t blame people for not getting with what I’m throwing down when my ghost heart gasps on every bridge to every chorus. And I might get sweaty when I’m dancing, but that’s just beause I’m pumping my hands not over my head but on my chest.  Redux, monsieur.

THESE ARE NEW BEGINNINGS
WON’T LET THE PAST DETERMINE

I GO
MY GHOSTS HAVE TURNED TO NOTHING

I like remixes. And I have to because I make so many mistakes but haven’t found the cure for me. My primero play was all pomp and bombasticity over beats and bass while I gave me CPR at 90bpm. Gonna try a second time, the past only determines where I go now. And cardioversion hurts, so I don’t want to restart my heart, my art. I’ll wash away in Nietzsche’s Amor Fati and love my fate. Allow the ambient noise to drown out the arrythmia and let my qualms quickstep in my underwear zero-percent laconically across this club in the LES. And I’ll look at you, waving my arms like glowsticks. And I’ll guide you in as I dance like no eyes ever look at me, because when they do I’m lost in the atmosphere and not my anxiety. And maybe in my silence and my calm, you’ll hear me. Maybe I’ll be renewed in my sweat and yours and your knowing glance at teh way our chest hair grinds upon together. And the way your hand rubs on the small of my back and we escape to Boiler Room and kiss on livestream, unaware of anyone but how remixes let us be reborn.

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