I want to make a bad decision.
I want to walk into a fire, drive too fast on a curvy mountain, drink more after the world begins to blur. I want to jump and not think about the way down, swim too deep against the current, climb a broken window into an abandoned house. If the window isn’t broken, I want to break it. If it’s broken, I want to break it more.
I want to spend all my money. Buy things I couldn’t possibly afford. Things I’ll never need. Things I don’t want. Things that mean nothing. When I’m out of money, I want to take things I haven’t bought.
I want to carry a knife under my skirt. Feel the steel on the inside of my thigh. I want to hit a man in the face. I want the soft of his eye socket beneath my balled fist. I want to feel my power from the inside out.
I want to light a cigarette. I want it to hang from the edge of my lip. I want men who don’t know me inking words into my skin. Words like death and time and harmony. I want them to use me to ask God if he exists.
I want to sleep with the musician.
I don’t want him to be a gentleman. I want him to play my body like a flute.
I want him to lay me across his lap, hold me there the way he holds his laouto, his hands moving across the strings too fast and then so slow.
I want him to lay his strings upon my naked body. I want him to smell of forest, of the bark of an aged oak tree after rain. His hair is long and curly and in my fingers. Crisp but soft. Strong and warm.
I want to leave before morning. I want to rise before the sun. I want to abandon him in the dusty dusk, take his music on my body and run.
I don’t want to be reasonable.
I don’t want to think about tomorrow.
I don’t want to be good.