These are my writings. Ideally, these are the most honest expressions of myself that I could give.

A Lost Weekend

Man Traveling Alone

What the fuck are you talking about? You think that there’s someone I’m trying to marry? Or wanting to marry or some shit? I’m totally single. I promise. Absolutely single, and yours for the weekend, if you’re still down. I mean, where did this come from? Did we have a discussion while I was drunk? Are you on acid? If you’re on acid, I would love it if you’d consider letting me have some acid. Maybe we could do things while on acid. Could be hot. But seriously, what the fuck are you even talking about? This shit makes no sense. But please let me know about the acid, okay?

Am I hung up on my ex? Of course! Is that what you’re worried about?! Why? I’m hung up on several exes! But you think that makes a difference with you? She and I are never getting back together, first off. My most recent one, I mean. Well, any of them, I guess. I’m just mourning. It’s not that big a deal, really. I’ve been broken up with lots of time, and I’m sure it’ll happen thousands more times. Anyway, what makes you think I wasn’t imagining you while I was with (in) her? All men do that shit. And pretty much every time. Plenty of women do, too, as I understand it; as I’ve been told. I’m not trying to make it a sexist thing, okay. But also, you’re my friend and I’ve always liked you. Otherwise, how would even have found ourselves having this discussion? But really, why does it matter how I feel about anyone else? You’re the one who suggested the sexual weekend rendezvous, and we’ve been friends for a while now. I respect and admire you. Do you think that I’ve forgotten how great you are and how sexy you are? I just don’t get this. It’s so weird to me. I mean, it’s fine and all – you’re entitled to your feelings, and I think they’re legitimate – but I just don’t understand. I want to understand.

I wouldn’t describe myself as a “good guy,” but you never communicated anything, and I don’t know where this is coming from. Did you ever ask me a question about this? Did you find something that I posted somewhere that misguided you? Did we have some conversation that I’m unaware of? Maybe you had my brain wiped clean of the memory of some interaction, like in that stupid Will Smith movie.

You knew that I was on my way to see you, and you disappeared. Did you break all of your fingers? Did Siri catch pneumonia? Whether you happen to be right or not, you have no idea what the fuck is going on. There’s no way you could. Way too goddamn presumptuous. Really. What do you think you know? And how? Fucking bullshit. I will delete you from my Facebook. I swear to God.

I mean, I realize that you might be kind-of psychic, but that doesn’t mean that you’re always right, every single time. But you’re stubborn as fuck, so it doesn’t matter what I say, huh? There’s no way you’re going to admit that maybe you made an assumption based on practically no evidence, and maybe that’s pretty un-fucking-fair, and maybe you could’ve done better. Anyway, I don’t expect an apology from you. Not really. I mean, it’d be nice, but I don’t think that you’d be likely to apologize about this sort of thing. You’ve probably deluded yourself into thinking that you’re right, anyway.

But you’re probably right, I guess. I still don’t know what about, but I basically trust you. I mean, I think that I know myself pretty well, but you’re not saying all this shit for no reason, I guess. I mean, it’s unfair and irrational, but that doesn’t mean that you’re wrong. What the fuck do I know, anyway? I’d probably just shit my pants and jack off all day, if left to my own devices. That’s the truth. I’m basically a child.

God, you have a beautiful body. Shit.

Because I’ll Never See You Again

Lost Friend

It was in the softness in your eyes:
there was fear there, vulnerability,
and I knew you’d experienced pain.

Maybe you were trying to trust men again,
and I gave you reasons to not trust me.
But I trusted you.

The honey in your voice,
the warmth of your smile
radiated confidence into me,
and I wanted to speak softly
so as to not startle you,
and I wanted to embrace you,
but that’s not quite right
because we would’ve embraced each other,
and we could’ve been best friends,
and that could’ve lasted.

I felt your fear,
despite your desire
to be sweet to someone,
and I’m sorry that I couldn’t be the one
to make you finally feel Free.
Farewell, My Lost Friend.

To Hold a Candle

Sad Love Letter

I still smell the singed centers of our final photographs,
but I can’t forget the figures forged in my mind.

I’m sitting in the center of my queen-size bed
with tape on my mouth,
but you can’t keep me from crying over you.

I’m terrified that you’ll never forgive me.
I’ve always loved you more than I’ve loved anyone,
and to be rejected so completely, so viciously, so callously,
means I’ve failed in the most profound way;
I wasn’t good enough
when I most needed to be.

“Rejection-Sensitive Dysphoria,” they’ll call it,
and they’ll be right.
And it’s incredibly excruciating.
But it’s something else, too.
There’s peculiar magic between us,
even if we’ve made it too complicated for now.

I know how to love myself.
I’ve just been doing a bad job, lately.

I keep entering your number in my phone,
just to press “End” instead of “Send.”
It’s excruciating.
I want to respect your wishes, and I’ll continue to,
but I miss you so badly.
I don’t just want to be friends,
but I’d settle for sometimes talking to you.

Until then, I’ll work at being better
for both our sakes,
and you go ahead and do what you want.
I’ll keep your secrets.
I talked to your dad, but I didn’t tell him anything to make him judge you.
I see that you’ve changed your hair,
so I know that all this pain is meaningful to you.

It’s okay to be scared,
but this is so painful.
I have faith in us both.

You’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever known,
even when you’re at your worst.
Maybe you’re just reminding me that I never deserved you.

So when you’re all done being angry,
when you can finally forgive yourself for our failures,
I’ll be here, waiting you to let me be your friend again,
wanting to hold you.
Just waiting.

Sweet Cannibalism

Pumpkin Pie

Maybe dying wouldn’t be so bad.
Some animal could come devour my carcass,
and I’d join the soil,
and plants would absorb parts of me,
and maybe part of me could become a pumpkin.

And then, the pumpkin could be baked into a pie,
and you could eat a piece of the pie because you miss me
and because you’d remember how I loved pumpkin pie,
and it’d make you sad to think of me
and it’d make you happy to think of me.

And if there’s an afterlife,
I could look at your lovely face
and feel satisfied
because I made you sad and happy
and because you missed me
and because I helped you
and because maybe part of me was a little sweet to you.

Nothing creative about this

My dad’s alive, hiding out, and he may be dying.

How do I feel about this?

I couldn’t tell you.

What’s Between Us

Space People

Here We are:
filled with Space,
floating in Space,
surrounded by more Space,
with Space between the Space
and more Space outside the Space.

And the Space out There
and the Space in Here,
between You and Me,
and surrounding Everything,
is all the same Space.

“Well, I Prefer It.”

Warning: this is sexually graphic.

Bloody Mouth

She yelled and then pushed, her naked tits hopping in front of me. She asked me why I’d done that, and I simply sat there, the pool of saliva growing inside my mouth. You’ll catch a fly before long, my mother would’ve said. Of course, my mother would’ve said a lot if she’d borne witness to this.

I didn’t have an answer for Charlene – “Charlie,” as I liked to call her – because I’d never even thought about it. What makes someone prefer french toast to pancakes? Blackberries to blue ones? A landing strip over full bush? What makes a person bite your mouth so hard that it bleeds?

It took me a few days to figure it out, and maybe I didn’t figure it out, but I know that I like the metallic taste; I like how it’s not thick or thin in a way that any other liquid is, I like that, in these moments, the line between pleasure and pain isn’t a line at all – in fact, I don’t think that there’s any distinction. I like that, when I taste blood, for a moment, I become concerned with whether it’s my blood or someone else’s. When I taste blood, my brain asks what it is, even though I already know, and even though I’m afraid, I’m satisfied.

But Charlie must think that I’m crazy. Maybe I’m crazy. My mom would probably think I were crazy, if she were still around to take a guess. And why hadn’t I recognized that this isn’t normal? Why had I thought that I could just go for it like that?

By this point, Charlie’s satin-y blue panties are halfway up one thigh, and wrapped around the knee on her other leg. She’s yelling something, but what is it?

She thought that we were friends and not that she were my whore. What the fuck do I say to that?

A Mildly Maddening Imprisonment

coffee in bed

My eyes feel old and pressed-upon,
cracked, dried, and burned,
like old, tan, dusty leather,
rusted-over roses,
bleeding the dried, motionless blood
of a garden in winter.
My eyelids wash them with turpentine,
briefly glazing them
with the vinegar-y residue
of worn, ineffectual tears.

The red rivers in my skin,
filled with magic, medicinal mud,
and the edges on my face softly hum
in alienating and alienated agitation.

If a pillow and a pill
could stop the world still,
I’d dive in headlong
and sleep to any bedsong.

An Early Summer Walk

Field with flowers

I sauntered about an herb garden today,
cradling a mug of Peaceful Pleasure tea.
The name’s corny,
but peace and pleasure I was needing.

I passed unfamiliar plants,
as the early summer sun warmed my sour blood,
and my hair gently blew with the breeze.
I watched bees nosh on oat grass nectar,
their fat little bodies nimbly traversing giant plants,
munching on flowers’ tops.

We hardly see bees anymore.
They’re dying.
But some things are worse than death.

I’ve thought it might be better to quit existing.
Maybe, when the bees have gone,
everyone will feel that it’s worse than death.

It was nice to think and walk in the early summer breeze,
surrounded by the fresh smell of flowers
and listening to the soft hum of bees.

Fire Drills Aren’t Actually Different in China

Did you know that there’s no statute of limitations for rape cases in Kansas? I could pull the trigger any time I want to, but I would never even threaten someone with that because you don’t know what it’s like. You have no idea or you just wouldn’t even think about it. I still have that damning email, but I wouldn’t. I thought of threatening you with it, but that would only make things worse, in the long-run. It might save me in the short-run to threaten with it, but it would hurt both of us too much, so I wouldn’t. Your dad thinks I’m a piece of shit. All your friends do, too, but no one knows about this because I would never. Which isn’t fucking fair, but whatever. Okay, I told one good friend. You should thank her, actually. My hips and stomach hurt; you wouldn’t understand. You never even showed that you cared about how hard it all was for me to deal with. It was great for you, you said. But now, you want your name to come up in every job interview. You wanna take food from my daughter’s mouth, even though I would do what you want. I want to marry you and have as many babies as you’d like. I’m going to therapy now. I’m volunteering at the soup kitchen again. I’m going to meditation groups, and I’m trying to get a third job. I worked so hard to get to where I was before this all happened, and I fucked it up because I got too ambitious and because I took you for granted. I made a mistake, and I didn’t manage things well. That’s my fault. I’m sorry. You were right about everything I was doing, and I didn’t listen because I’m an idiot. I assumed that you’d always be there. You kept talking about Twin Flames, and maybe you’re right, but I could use a friend, and now I can’t even talk to you, when what I really want is to spend 72 hours curled up in a ball with you such that I can’t tell which arm is yours and which is mine. You hairy little shit, with your distracting armpit hairs. I finally got used to them. But why are you doing this? It won’t change anything except to make things harder for me. You’re just making my life a little shorter, and for what? So that you can demonstrate a little control? I’d go to couples counseling with you for the rest of my life, if it meant that when I went to sleep each night, I could rub my hand against your soft, sweet cheeks that I know so well. I want what you want. I want to be who you want me to be, and I just need to keep working at it. Can’t you just be a little patient? Maybe I don’t deserve it, but if you get what you want in the end, isn’t it worth it? Maybe no. I don’t know what you want anymore. I love you, and I intend to be with you if you’ll let me. Maybe now’s not the time, and I could respect that, but fuck. I said something stupid because I was hurt. I shouldn’t have. But you do know me. I get that you’re scared, but you DO know me. Let me start again, and I’ll try to be less of a dumbass this time. Just let me marry you.


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