Page 87 of Go Luck Yourself
I’m fine. Thanks.
Sorry I texted the group chat. Meant to only bother Coal with my mental collapse.
IRIS
so you were going to send me the pic of the shattered bottle, then nothing?? like i wouldn’t have known something was up anyway
i’m free right now. call me? we can talk about it
Thanks. But I just got off the phone with Coal, so I’m all talked out.
IRIS
it’s been a pretty interesting progression of photos you’vesent. first the one of loch. now the broken bottle.
what’s the next one gonna be?
My reaction is to tell her—jokingly, the way I would Coal—to fuck off. Are we there yet? After everything else tonight, why not find out?
The next photo will be me lovingly flipping you off.
IRIS
eh, derivative. you’ve got more photographer potential than that
Are you seriously critiquing my text photo dump?
IRIS
like a fine wine babycakes
A noise warbles through the library a beat before my fogged brain realizes I laughed. It settles in my chest, real and warm.
Just for you, I’ll try to make my emotional breakdowns form a poetic, complete story arc.
IRIS
that’s all i ask
but seriously, take care of yourself, okay?
I drop my phone onto my chest and lay there, arm thrown over my head.
Coal told me not to figure things out in a drunk moment. Iris got me thinking about poetic resolution, which is theoppositeof what I should be doing now; forcing my life to fit a certain mold is what got me into this mess. But maybe that’s not what poetry is? Nothing beautiful is ever forced. So what pieces have I missed, what path am I already going down that I haven’t noticed because I’ve been too busy trying to make other paths work?
Okay. Short introspection moment.
What do I know about myself?
One. I like writing. I miss it. I miss it so much that I think that’s part of the ache that’s always in my chest—I miss doing it forme,not to drone on about the economic and political ramifications of the Jacobite party against Robespierre’s rise or other dry-ass bullshit that Ido not care about.
Two. Well, One-A. I really hate school. Like, deeply, passionately loathe it.
Three. I want to kiss Loch again. I want to kiss him again and again and I want to find out what he was going to do when he was trying to take off my belt. I want to know if he always talks like that when he’s kissing or if he was drunk, because if that’s what he does when he’s sloshed then whatever that tongue of his can do sober is going to completely annihilate me.
Four. Four. Is there a Four?
Well. Three things is a start.
