Subtlety: the wooden square that we keep trying to mash into the triangle hole. Which is to say, we have no idea when and where to use it. Sometimes, I swear, it’s like we’re screaming popular sexual euphemisms at each other inside a public library. Other times it’s like we’re drawing with faded little colored pencils, when we should be flinging our paint-drenched bodies against the walls of this tiny room. God. How weird.
All the horrible things that you have to say to me, I want them cut out of magazines and newspapers and — if you could, thank you kindly — pasted on the ceiling above my bed so that it’s the reality of my mornings. And all the beautiful stuff, the unbearably precious outbursts you’re saving up for the sanctioned day when such things are said — hide these in the pockets of the pants that I tell you I always wear, but you know I don’t, ’cause I’m a terrible liar.
Because all we can really agree on is what we hate, and that’s terrible. Because everything that is amazing about you, I want to earn.