So for once in my life, let me get what I want –
Lord knows, it would be the first time.
.
Dear Morrissey,
.
Sometimes there is a thunderstorm in my head and I am buffeted by descending clusters of fuck-you rain and my body twists tragically
.
into a tangle of helpless and sad, and I am swept like crumpled trash into concrete walls of the city until there is a door
.
that swings open when I fall sideways through it, and it is a bar in London and not a hip one, just trapped smoke and stale sweat and beer,
.
and your voice cuts through the grime like hot wax. It curls warmly around me and I sit at the bar and fall into your melancholy,
.
damp and shivering lustily. You have a combination of charm and self-pity so potently desirable, every musician since is just pretending,
.
myself included. You make me want to write half-seduction-half-angst poetry on bathroom stalls in lipstick. You make me
.
want to throw peanuts at your stupid brooding face and laugh. You make me want to sneak into your bed, where we’ll wipe each others’ eyes
.
until we’ve convinced ourselves we have made love. I will laugh about it later. The thought makes me smile. You notice
.
and try to croon your beautiful eyes to me, and I tell the bartender I am closing out. I would tell you that I hope you get what you want,
.
but, (and here is the difference between us), I think this is it. I sing the chorus ironically on my way out while you watch me leave.
.
Half sincerely,
Anna
