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TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER

an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
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12.14.02, saturday night

How to prevent the first fight? the first lie? the first disappointment? I can't.

I watch you lying asleep on Niva's couch, Oliver in the crook of your knee. Fingers coax melancholy from a piano; I am near tears. Must be PMS, waiting for blood, clotted, to plop black into toilet bowl. The unexpressed emotions clotting into an unmanageable, messy ball, somewhere between throat and clit. coming out at a time when we didn't expect it: after the first six weeks, those miraculous weeks. Moody, you called me. I think: uncertain, doubtful, waiting for heartbreak. The first lie I would tell. The first disappointment you would experience.




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