the thing is, when you sneak into a boy's bed (i should say a man's bed), when it is dark and there is no toilet paper but he's got chocolate, even when you have a key and a drawer and a toothbrush and personal cereal, you start to feel like an intruder; a crim; a burgler (spelling alert). and then when the boy/man comes home, and you're in bed and he comes over with all this whiskey on his breath, but he smells like a druglord at the neck and he grabs you like he might break you (because he's randy and drunk), you start to feel like a whore.
i don't really ever write like this; in this semi- this-equals-this manner; in this second-person voice. but i think it's because i'm writing about a stranger. i'm writing about you, who is me, but who is you.
it strikes me that i am potentially frightened of peeping tom; not of his temper but of his frost. even though we made love this morning, i feel foreign to him. he calls 'love-making' 'fucking' and i usually like it; usually.
i've been collecting dead creatures and bagging them. they're specimens, but sometime i'm going to make them larger than they should be. there's yellow moth, hairy moth, and queen ant. there's also giant body-less butterfly, and hard beetle.
peeping tom is a hard beetle. he's like a boiled egg and this pathetic wriggling sperm too. he's the ultimate paradox. we are all the paradox. the boiled egg and the pathetic sperm.