But do you want to try this language with me?

You want words that are discrete, right? Definitely defined. Words that can be placed in your ABC categorized bookshelf, where fiction is neatly distinguished from reality. And there are no weeks without weekdays, no golden gardens or lovers who only live for 350 pages. No room for passionate faints, for unreason, for mornings that lasts forever.

How can there be hope if there's no fiction? How can love survive in spaces where there is nothing beyond immediate human perception? Say, do you not wish for something (else than this) for queen and country, for children of the next generation, for yearning hearts and unreasonable passion?

I wish I could sleep
longer in the mornings
at least until the clouds ascends
I wish I had a dog
that never left my side
not even for washroom trips
I wish I had a thinking jukebox
that played love songs all day long
(except on Thursdays
because that is laundry day)
I wish I wouldn't have to
wake up with heartache
or at least not the subtle kind

I wish a trip to South Africa
could be done in half an hour
from the other side of the globe
I wish I knew how many more minutes
I will breathe
so I can plan my future
I wish the maple leafs could be
red in the summer
so I could watch them get stuck
under my bare white feet
I wish I was forced to lie on the side
because my belly's grown into proportion

I wish I somehow
was able to give you the words
you need to hear
on a rainy afternoon
inside my brown room
on the street with no name

I do not think my reality is distorted. It is enriched, by beliefs that does not have a material manifestation. I choose my words carefully (they reflect a politics of love). Yet I do not feel sure that you understand them as I do. I try way too hard and get disappointed when I accidentally realize that we do not share the same linguistic universe. I feel deprived, stripped of my language, my shield, my skin. How will I ever convey something that demands more than my words to describe?

You call me promiscuous but that's clearly an understatement

I might need you because you are not good to me. You leave me waiting by the phone, you turn to the world when I need you by my side (but only for an hour, I swear), you do not give me the attention I'm spoiled with, you let me know that this is not forever, that this is not even for the present. I subject to this, rationalizing the educational value in this degradation.

As I ask if you'd like to do something with/to me, your beautiful eyes rest solely on my unworthy face. "What do you have in mind?", you reply with a quirky smile. And I can't stop laughing, so I give myself away. You give me your phone number and when the night arrives I cannot fall asleep.

I hate these silences you force on me when we're apart, I cannot deal with them very well. I know they're supposedly useful, potential situations for testing my virtue, my patience or another fuckable category. You chastise me, enforcing virtuousity, when all I want is your body to indulge in. (And all my knowledge of you is put to shame, you never behave the way you were biologically determined to.)

I might need this rawness, your rudeness, your anti-love. I think I need someone else to do the hating for me, you see, the contempt. (Reason does not work when it comes to me and you, I'm pledged to this, I have to, I want to, won't have it any other way, I need you, I need you, I need you to tie me up, to leave me waiting, to let me down, to leave me, to tear my heart to pieces, to use me, abuse me, so I can leave this country with nothing more than bare shoulders and a picture of you.) I should revise my worldview anyway. I might get used to this lot, since my righteous benevolence-account ran out of credit.

I called you last Saturday to ask what you were up to. I hear your voice and want to send you small flowers in brightly packaged boxes, in golden wrapping, with chinese notes about how I [heart] you. I walk the streets with soul in my headphones, hoping I'll see your smile in the sunshine behind the corner, wishing for spring so I can walk the streets in my ballerinas so you see how small my feet are compared to yours.

And you let me know quite harshly that this is not forever, that my need for someone who is not good to me is just childish and stupid. I can't fight in English, I'm sorry. You give me roles I hate, but I play them well. You give me names I resist but I use them in secret. You categorize me and I wait for the next night so I can be close to you and feel your breath against my back when you're doing me wrong, when you're telling me my life story, my resemblance to daughters of the street.

Reason is not for this. You know, I need the feeling, but the feeling is you. Yeah, the feeling is you. Needable.

Meet me where the new cools & trends in pieces of the lives of others intersect

I'd like to be one of those people who are in fashion without even knowing it. Alternatively, I'd like to be one of those who re-enters fashion without realizing they were ever out of date. I seriously considered giving you up, as a fashion statement, but that would probably not make me a better nor happier person. Yes, true. And self satisfaction is the current It.

So I need you, cotton laces and boy's underwear; satin bomberjackets; silk scarves and fishnet stockings. Must haves this season: New bracelets, diadems and cheap plastic pastel jewellery. A lighter shade of blueish skinny jeans, more green in, modesty out, purple for spring and babydoll tops reshelved to highest wardrobe status. I know we can get along just fine. (Conscience of the world, bear with me. I'm sure it's just another seasonal phase.)

Also: Moodshifts and Swedish pop in my headphones, The Mechanical Bride in my design bag, heart on the subway between Christie station and Ossington, Sushi with you on Bloor, chemicals on Fridays, sleep-in Sundays and waking up next to another you withour regretting the dress I wore yesternight. And yes, nearly forgot - friends with pancake skills.

My heart will never recount for all the missing days, but who cares about that when there are addictions to be refreshed. Please don't go, never leave me, buy me for free. It's okay, you'll stay for this round too. Just remember that charcoal or black pearl does not match sunlight or pale skin (except if you're in Finland).

Kohti sydänkohtausta

Father writes obnoxious small lettered words, asking if I eat enough. I do not know, fatherlove. I do not know. See, me dealing with life is the inverse version, the not-part. On those sadder days I tend to forget. The eating, the living. For my own well-being though, there are things I never forget. I do not know why these phenomena tend to stick on to me.

You see, haluaisin herätä edes yhden päivän sua ajattelematta, sua kaipaamatta. Jos saisin edes vähän etumatkaa, jos voisin edes hetkeksi unohtaa meidät, menneisyytemme. Sä et koskaan jätä mua rauhaan. Uus päivä, samat halventuneet vaatteet, tunteet. Etsin suotta sanoja(si) miten vähentää ikävöintiä, miten parantaa haavat vatsassa, rinnassa, sydämessä (vasemmassa käsivarressa).

Sunnuntaiaamu. Taas toinen viikonloppu takana, taas toinen sielu pelastettu (vaan ei oma), taas murskattu sydän liimattavana takaisin paikalleen. Ja jos sanon etten tiedä mitään rakkaudesta, sulje silmäsi, korvasi. Because I do.

Rakas, babylove, tää hiljaisuus ei taatusti sovi sulle. Onks mä koskaan pyytänyt sulta mitään, liikaa? Voithan suoda mulle edes sanan, joka pitää mut elossa seuravaan sanattomaan palkkapäivään.

Father does not know. But he continues to write, encapsulating love in small portions of virtual insanity. And I keep forgetting.