(torrential downpour)

“It is beyond question that this would further complicate the situation, but I would also understand if you decided to go.”

— A therapist practicing impartiality


You are a pastime that I cannot let go,

and making mistakes is a dangerous hobby.



Remembering who I am is a hot-cheeked, sinking feeling.

Pins and needles, butterflies in the ventricles.

Blood flow returning to areas that had lost feeling,

that had been presumed dead.


Have you ever been thirsty and drank much water so fast that your stomach hurt?

Things that you need are not always comfortable.

Sometimes things that you need happen all at once.


Sometimes they do not feel like giddiness,

but like the dizzying disorientation of being up too high on a tall building.

I am crashing back to reality.

You revel in my fall.


The rings feel so hollow

Just like forever seems hollow

As if the cost of my inner thighs is beer

And mixed drinks after, to make the night go wrong

I do not feel traces of him on my body

Seedlings in the spring air cling to me more then he ever will

And you are my whole self

You are embedded in every follicle

You are the precipitate of heart beat

I feel you in my breath

You are my forever

The forever that I pray outweighs my tomorrow

I will keep waiting for you

At the back door

At the front door

At the landing of the stairs

6.7.18 pt. 2

Are you enamored by the way light refracts off the surface of my skin

Is that distracting to you


You are preoccupied by the contents of your own imagination

There is no reality in us

And I wish there were less


I think if I were further from you, the words would come to me

I would write our friendship like a eulogy


If I get a dick pic I’m leaving the state


This body — this prison

Confined against my own free will


The eyes I catch in the mirror are not my eyes

Do not reflect my sense of being or say what I want them to say


I’ve been struggling with the idea of identity

The idea that I need one

That I can’t just live in a symbiotic relationship with my own impermanence

Rather than paint and adorn, everyday attending to this shrine to social acceptance


I wonder if the voices in the kitchen sound like my voice

Are we all just taking turns feigning security?


I’m questioning how I relate to even myself