Bookmarking the Hate
by 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
t 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
ain, 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.