maria petrovich
delusion
who the fuck else is from a one pub northland town how dare you know the lake i bombed orange summers into. it’s strange you stranger drawing in my diary because you do graffiti and there’s my purple name with hearts and now here’s your family tree with missing fruit and bora. i am quietly crying because my heart is flat about other things bland pain things but now has some sugar stirred in it’s too sweet. the birds arrived immediately. i coincidentally bump into you on the street and we go back to yours.
fridays only fridays when you emerge from underground a drunk and grumpy huhu. you said i have great energy. i think you have great colours like microscopic pollen, though you have your back to me almost always and we have nothing in common. silence is special no silence is just sex besides we can read each other’s minds because trauma is a scratching on the cave wall of humanity. you do whisper that you are shit because you’ve been to prison twice but it’s ok barbwire always, always hides a guilty treasure. so it’s decided, i’ll protect you from the spiders. we are warm and steady beside each other like two sleeping whales. you are so sexy when you’re calm.
by the green river you try to carry me but i love when i don’t need you so demonstrably, see? bad things are happening in the background but these are my own responsibility. the trees are on fire. the birds are on fire. the graves are on fire and the dead things coming out of them are on fire. i roll over like a caged sow squishing its own little piglets so you can enter me more easily. you have never raised a conversation but at least you’ve not raised a fist hey? go away this is a fridge that’s been pissed in a gas lamp in a tent a swollen scab. on valentine’s day, you unromantically text that we are nothing. speak for yourself, i am feelings with flesh.
Maria Petrovich writes things, which, considering you’re reading this, makes perfect sense.