Oct 2017
I can’t believe I’m interested in this guy who
Took a selfie. Inside a ******* art gallery. In
The bathroom, because what?
There was nothing to see?
I asked if he wanted to get out of there,
He did. We went out, to some
Uptown clearance shop.
I saw a book by Joan Rivers.
I took a picture of the book;
Just some of the many illusions of rescue.
These days, nobody wants
Joan Rivers in their lives. And Khaki cargo pants,
Or classic momma-did-this braids.
You, a boy the same age as mine,
Might love me. Almost. It matters,
Even if you don’t remember, the words you said
To me, about my specific beauty. I’m a toothpaste
For vegans; an AZERTY keyboard, or an arthouse film
Only three people will see, but I am worth seeing,
Even if I’m niche, boring, and particular.
Because you said, mumbling in
Your sleep, that I had eyes beneath my bangs,
Which were Licorice black, with
A baby blue pool at the center like a still vacuum.
I already loved you, but really,
What I loved was the way you talked about my
Flaws in illusory grandeurs, granting
My oafish, ungraceful heart and body accolades.
Did you just want to have ***? Probably not,
I mean, look at this whole situation – I’m
Not exactly one to feast eyes on. I’m a wreck,
A dumpling mash of chopped cardboard and
Dead skin. So no, it wasn’t feral.
The thing is, though
I have wanted this love all throughout my
Life, which isn’t a long time, considering the universe ends in
What? A few billion years? And I already feel that end.
Tomorrow, we’ll be 25. Then in five years, 30.
Then 10 years more, 40? The rest is just
A blurry jetsam of reduced memories, and looking
At photo albums online, wishing
Your friends were still alive. We are officially
Dead now, thanks.
The thing is, I feel like
It’s never gonna end when I’m with you,
When I’m ensconced in your consciousness.
The truth, with your name included in it,
Is better than my regular truth, which is
Just painfully boring.
I said this to you last week, and yet,
You dismissed it, saying that all I want
– All I want –
Is stimulus and biological response.
But ******* very much; I know my body;
I know what I ******* want.
I don't need you anyway.
There are other people who might want me
Down the line, I just haven’t met them yet.
I just haven’t learned enough social
Jostling, or romantic politics
To get myself served.
Then again, finding the words
“Requirement” and “champion of his own interests,”
As the foremost concepts of my profile
On your personal journal really ****** me up.
Sorry to have broken your privacy, sorry to have
Entered that forbidden dimension. I am just.
So. livid. That you don’t realize I’m a thousand instances
Of constants in the story you’re weaving, leaving me
Out everytime.
And the thing is, I just can’t do it.
You took a selfie, alone, in the bathroom
Of an art gallery, and I just waited, outside,
Super dark (because it was also an art show)
With other people in line.
When you came out, like
A precious, untamed neanderthal looking
For light outside the cave, I was happy
That I was a touchstone in the dark, horrible
Place of cluelessness we share. I am a blanket of comfort
In this closed space outdoors, in public,
Where monsters are more willing
To eat us alive.
When I saw that picture, though,
You, mustache, brows, bags under eyes,
Adorable. I knew you were happy being alone,
And that I was a side quest
That didn’t took much energy, so
It was fine not to ruffle some feathers.
I knew what I want
As we went home, I knew.
Took a selfie. Inside a ******* art gallery. In
The bathroom, because what?
There was nothing to see?
I asked if he wanted to get out of there,
He did. We went out, to some
Uptown clearance shop.
I saw a book by Joan Rivers.
I took a picture of the book;
Just some of the many illusions of rescue.
These days, nobody wants
Joan Rivers in their lives. And Khaki cargo pants,
Or classic momma-did-this braids.
You, a boy the same age as mine,
Might love me. Almost. It matters,
Even if you don’t remember, the words you said
To me, about my specific beauty. I’m a toothpaste
For vegans; an AZERTY keyboard, or an arthouse film
Only three people will see, but I am worth seeing,
Even if I’m niche, boring, and particular.
Because you said, mumbling in
Your sleep, that I had eyes beneath my bangs,
Which were Licorice black, with
A baby blue pool at the center like a still vacuum.
I already loved you, but really,
What I loved was the way you talked about my
Flaws in illusory grandeurs, granting
My oafish, ungraceful heart and body accolades.
Did you just want to have ***? Probably not,
I mean, look at this whole situation – I’m
Not exactly one to feast eyes on. I’m a wreck,
A dumpling mash of chopped cardboard and
Dead skin. So no, it wasn’t feral.
The thing is, though
I have wanted this love all throughout my
Life, which isn’t a long time, considering the universe ends in
What? A few billion years? And I already feel that end.
Tomorrow, we’ll be 25. Then in five years, 30.
Then 10 years more, 40? The rest is just
A blurry jetsam of reduced memories, and looking
At photo albums online, wishing
Your friends were still alive. We are officially
Dead now, thanks.
The thing is, I feel like
It’s never gonna end when I’m with you,
When I’m ensconced in your consciousness.
The truth, with your name included in it,
Is better than my regular truth, which is
Just painfully boring.
I said this to you last week, and yet,
You dismissed it, saying that all I want
– All I want –
Is stimulus and biological response.
But ******* very much; I know my body;
I know what I ******* want.
I don't need you anyway.
There are other people who might want me
Down the line, I just haven’t met them yet.
I just haven’t learned enough social
Jostling, or romantic politics
To get myself served.
Then again, finding the words
“Requirement” and “champion of his own interests,”
As the foremost concepts of my profile
On your personal journal really ****** me up.
Sorry to have broken your privacy, sorry to have
Entered that forbidden dimension. I am just.
So. livid. That you don’t realize I’m a thousand instances
Of constants in the story you’re weaving, leaving me
Out everytime.
And the thing is, I just can’t do it.
You took a selfie, alone, in the bathroom
Of an art gallery, and I just waited, outside,
Super dark (because it was also an art show)
With other people in line.
When you came out, like
A precious, untamed neanderthal looking
For light outside the cave, I was happy
That I was a touchstone in the dark, horrible
Place of cluelessness we share. I am a blanket of comfort
In this closed space outdoors, in public,
Where monsters are more willing
To eat us alive.
When I saw that picture, though,
You, mustache, brows, bags under eyes,
Adorable. I knew you were happy being alone,
And that I was a side quest
That didn’t took much energy, so
It was fine not to ruffle some feathers.
I knew what I want
As we went home, I knew.
