Bookmarking the Hate
Elena Dypiangco

As I went in for the killshot I decided instead to go in for a nightcap: the parts of my body disperse into darkened corners, regress into patterns that I have not seen for so long that I don’t recognize them as such--until I do. I fucked around, certainly, but—what was it with people wanting me to come through? Through where? Into what? My revolving door of aspirations ensured I was cracked open to invaders, lovers, and the interesting ones who doubled as both! To queue my ire, that was a process that required, it would seem, active reconstruction. A model for good measure: when you click this button, you queue a show so that it is played after the previous one without delay. Had exercises in patience all but gone extinct? I live incrementally. I am always coming through, to use that obsequious phrase. How is it that something like endless pain, once a co-conspirator in name, has been vibrantly abbreviated? My gentle shoulder re-attaches itself to my body. It was when the sun awakened the next morning that I remembered to call it a night.