Oh yeah, I can't do what you girls do and still be a lady.

You thought I didn't know. Thought I was sleeping, blissfully entombed in unconsciousness, but no. My eyes were closed but behind the lids my pupils dilated and filled the room in awareness when your door opened. It was early, before light crept into the sky, and I felt you tiptoe forward and close your fingers around mine. For a brief moment I was tipped backwards and emotions rippled over the edge to soak the carpet and drown your toes. You left quickly and I came to my senses. That was long ago and if you dig up the past it's only bound to get you dirty.

Every day begins the same as it did in Nanaimo, with an acute and blinding objection to facing any hour before 10am. I base my decision on whether to ride the bus on a combination of ice-to-pavement ratio and how many calories I can ingest (steal/sample) while at work. If I only get my partner latte and half a peanut butter bar, then I better opt for city transit otherwise I'll be so hungry upon returning home that I'll eat more than the rationed amount of Mr. Noodles and peanut butter sandwiches. I'm so poor.

I look for direction from the most minute, un-important objects: the blush on a child's wind-bitten face, the lucky pennies choking the pockets of my winter coat, the slight stutter in my heart beat when I've had too much to drink/smoke. The most inane things hold so much weight for me now, maybe I'm homesick or love sick or just plain anemic and flu-ridden. Maybe if I count my lucky stars on a clear night the mumbers will add up until the clouds swell and burst and shower down to drown me. Maybe if I smile at enough homeless people and tip well for mediocre service God will send me a telegram with a crisp $100 bill and "Thanks, Hill," written in blood. I'm hungry to be the action to some reaction, eager to mix my vinegar soul with someone's baking soda brain. I want love that makes my lips pucker and a kiss that sets a fire and boils my inside until the bubbles fill my stomach and throat and I feel full.
But no one can save me but myself. I have to wake at ungodly hours, serve the caffeine-ravenous population of Victoria with niceties and half-caf non-fat half-sweet 3 pump extra shot tall lattes, pull myself away from the trendy downtown shops so I can actually eat next month, and go to bed each and every night knowing that my twin bed isn't big enough for two and that's enough reasoning for me.

I woke up to my roommate and her boyfriend having sex at 6:30 in the morning the other day and spent the next hour and a half tossing and turning and dodging back and forth between wanting you and wanting to be completely alone. On what am I meant to base this decision? Where's my 8-Ball, my heads or tails simplicity that used to govern my heart? Fuck, what am I saying, it's always been and most likely forever will be this complicated. Then, the Blood Brothers/And You Will Know Us By The Trail Of Dead show. A night I spent choked by testosterone, ravaged by mosh-pitters, stunned by incredible music, and confused by a number of things. A number of boys. With dress shirts and mouths reaking of liqour. With wandering eyes and waltzes on dance floors.

"I don't hate you. And I hope that you don't hate me."
"Are you kidding? I've hated you since the day I met you!"