The woman in the black hat has no regrets, and that’s just as well, because she doesn’t have to live with her mistakes.
I am who appears in the days after the woman in the black hat has had her say and do.
I do nothing but regret.
The woman in the black hat is everything I wish I could show without crucifying myself the next day, because the woman in the black hat is me. When I’m pushed to the brink, there is she—she emerges. She emerges out of my most base urges and she leaves me the next day debased.
I want to embrace her,
but she is too imperfect. She is too drunk dial, too give in, to fall on the dance floor and kiss strangers and say exactly how she feels when she feels it.
The woman in the black hat is too wild, when I was told that discipline would lead to righteousness.
The woman in the black hat says the things I think when I have been thinking them but silent for too long, but she never takes into account that I have to inhibit this space too. And in the mornings it is me who wakes with club-stained shirts and liner-smeared eyes and patchy memories of the sayings and the doings,
and quick leavings.
And it is me who is left holding my knees, rocking myself while wailing silently in an apartment with too-thin walls;
She is selfish.
The woman in the black hat never takes into account that I can’t handle her mistakes, I, the summa-cum-laude-this-is-how-i-determine-my-self-worth-graduate-student. I, the poker-face-best-foot-forward-product-of-a-long-line-of-fake-it-till-you-make-it.
There is darkness there,
and i fear ourselves merging.
I mean I feel ourselves merging; what is this?