Seeing what you saw. Hearing what you heard. A shared experience in non-linear time. It’s highly arousing.

Do you think if I speak one word about you by the ocean that you live in every particle of water and we writhe infinitely and evaporate and fall again. Again and again.

Back at home. At the scene of all of my crimes.

We’re all going to die at some point. This song feels cozy, cute, superficial, transient, fluffy, insignificant, and meaningful. Like the rest of it.

Some day I’ll be dead. I’ll remember parts of little parts until then. You. The South. Moving past it. Never forgetting. Him. You. Things I’ll never remember but feel so big and beautiful at the time. Every time I feel too much I want to cut myself open.

One hour away from here I gave every single of myself. What would closeness look like. Like me now. With you there.

Can I have a patch of space to roll with all my lovers. I want you all in the same room. I want to tell you all. I LOVE YOU I FUCKING LOVE YOU. Each of you. Thank you for making me laugh across the room. Thank you for fucking me in the grass outside in the middle of the night and eating dirt and blades of grass with me. Thank you for letting me kiss you on the way home while we fell into doorway while you were intoxicated from one drink. Thank you for the slow burn and the maturity. Thank you for not anything. Thank you for being there for me everyday.

Anyway, so I’ll die some day. Expire. Everything will be lost. I might as well die now. When I’m dead, it won’t make a difference if I lived 2 more seconds or 200 more years. Because when I’m dead, it’s all the same. Nothingness. Cease to exist. Nothing will exist anymore. It will all be blank. Even all the little parts of parts that I hold so dearly. Nothing. Whether it happens now or later, it all ends up in the same place. Nowhere. Lovers, I love you. I wish I had more of you. You and you, my life’s work.

I’m somewhere between Groupo Extra and Scream Club.

My body smelled like old blood two weeks ago. Now everyone is looking at me. Time is whatever. I’m a small sprout watching you walk away wondering why you didn’t furtively caress the side of my hand. Then some time later melting into you under the final full moon in the garden. I’m some thing from the present imagining I’m some small spore inside ourself. I’m me feeling myself as a woman seeing the pastel sunset while I grab ahold of your hair and myself for the first time ever. Peeking through small slats of otherwise ugly blinds. Later, hands and knees and everything wide open.

You mythic creature. Me small spore.

I didn’t wear my glasses all day. My face is a different person. Surrounded by hard drives and desert. Excel and InterCall. Tomorrow it’s East Coast and dress up. I’ve been gone for nearly all of January. I spent a few hours at home learning to whimper. Sometimes when I’m alone, I listen to Songs: Ohai and remember the absolute other worldly misery of being in North Carolina alone in June. That was two and a half years ago now. Sleeping awkwardly on a fitted sheet on the floor of an empty apartment. Covered in the dramatic Southern twilight sky. Sweating, cycling, sobbing.

I’m in Hoboken, looking out at Midtown.
Thinking about the sound of leather/ hard soles on concrete.

Bring on that January depression plus self harm ideation. I’m 32 and still think about hurting myself. The only difference is now I recognize it isn’t normal. And if I could fight and fuck I feel like I’d feel very all right.

Fuck my god damn life

When do I get to become the little bottom boy of my dreams. Angelic, disgusting, beastly, hedonic ejaculations. Unafraid (but not unsafe). There are three, maybe four, dudes fucking next door. The 3rd’s orgasm was particularly satisfying. And I was jealous of all the male parts and forms and fluids. I so much love the sound of a man unabashedly orgasming. Especially if they do it in your ear, with their entire body wrapped around you, pulled as far in and you can be. Then squeezed even tighter still. And you compress and are brought in even more. And you get lost in the crook of their arm. You fade away. Under a blanket of shoulders and mass.

Depravity is interesting, I must say.

Is elective debauchery truly a bourgeoisie sport. In my case, boring repressed middle class feelings and fear re: keeping the lid on depravity.

’re:’ ha.

This day was the most excruciating. I get scared thinking about it. Still, three years later. It was horrifying. I was so scared. It was sickening. And everything that came after. …And everything that came before.

All week I’ve been aware of something lingering. Something big but unnamable. Dreaming you. Now I realize the date. Now I’m sludge. And sick. God damn it. Come back, come back, I kept saying, and nothing made sense. Everything was black. Everything kept being black for a long time. Happy anniversary, little one.

I don’t spend enough time outside at night.