Every moment of profound self-assertion reveals a history of unrecognised pain.

2. Addiction, in a way, can be defined by the inability to see a way out of a state of being.

3. If you want to better understand your own history and culture, learn someone else’s.

4. Masculinity is a lot pudgier than the YouTube man promised.

5. Anxiety makes you spend more time with your imagined conversations with people than the people themselves. The problem is that events that didn’t happen can still drain you of your self-esteem.

6. I sometimes think that conversation is just the continuous waiting for listening to happen. I always thought listening was about giving rather than receiving, but it might actually be the greatest act of self-love possible.

7. The depths of your experience are defined by the depths of your expression.

I don’t have the energy for the pretence of poetry.

I think too many boys are infatuated with seducing themselves using the wit of writers as a substitute for nakedness. I think sincerity, somehow, lies in the fumbling of expression, and that absolute accuracy sends the earnest into an uncanny valley. Although, the affair we’re having with irony might be worse.

A small promise, or a joke, I’ve always remembered was that at some point in life you’ll find close friends you’re inseparable with. Only a few to be fair. Some adults say you’ll meet em in kindergarten, others say high school, maybe college, or even the workplace. I don’t know.

I overthink the walks back to my house, scripting stories from off-hand glances, hesitations, and gaps of speech.

I see how they talk to and touch each other. I wonder if it’s the shared history. Maybe it’s that they don’t take things so seriously. Or the imaginary distance is settling it. I don’t know the answer, except that anxiety and imagination too often sit at the same dinner table.

he always trying to sum up her
with one of his epigrams
but boiled when she did the same
declaring
“I’m not like that. You’re reducing me to a
bookmark quote.”

and she’d say
“I’m not. You’re reading too much into my nonsense.”
and he’d sigh
shrugging his eyebrows
suspecting he was guilty too
guilty of ignorance
of hubris
but still
he couldn’t shake his feelings.

summer,
a little before midnight,
the AC’s keeping half the sweat off our backs
thank god it’s not humid
we are sitting on his bed,
well
I’m laying between his legs
on top of him
faces inches away from each other,
it’s not ******
or romantic
but it’s something?

I hope I’m not crushing him,
but he holds me
as I press my face into his shoulder
and ask if I’m too much,
he says sometimes
but don’t worry so much,
I sigh
tracing his soft back with my fingers,
thinking how often we argue,
no that’s too strong a word
how often we disagree
better

it’s at those times
I wanna peel myself off that
that motormouth
and scream into a pillow,
but as I lay on him,
for all the times I can’t see or stand his
bluntness,
in the aftermaths
I’m always grateful for him,
challenging my ego
to be so openly
himself

the knots in my shoulders are
worth it
I pull him in even closer,
kissing his cheek,
interlacing our fingers,
the AC can barely keep up
don’t worry,
I won’t marry him
I won’t date him
**** I won’t even sleep with him,
not that he’d let me do any of the above

right now though,
his heart’s beating against mine
and I’m wondering about
the imperfect people
I let into my self
and how much we miscommunicate,
but never stop trying
and maybe,
that makes it worth it.