“They tell me to fear the homeless in LA but I do not. They say women alone at night should not be out, but I have my dogs, and we frequent empty parks after dark, side-by-side with encampments, and we watch (my dogs and I) the homeless cart their belongs by. Well, my dog barks.

They hand me giant jugs over chin-high fences, to ask if I would fill them; their freshest water exists from a dog park spout. Last week I saw a man struggling to press a cardboard slat into the grate of an open sewage pipe, his secret resting place. About a month before, a man with all his worldly belongings strewn along the plastic floor of a porta-***** so smeared in ****t, you’d not dare touch a square inch. Rain was pouring, and he needed to sleep with a roof.

And I think, I am not so different from them. Me, with my white skin and pretty smile; people treat you nicer when you’re pretty. When you can put a face on and say straight-sounding things, and not speak of months spent living in your car, sleeping on street-sides, praying for no cops. Or of deep pain——no, do not speak of that. Too much pain makes people afraid, makes people want to look away. How no one noticed the man hiding his face in the sewage drain, the man sleeping in the ****t-smeared porta-toilet,   because   every   person   noticed,   and   just   decided   not   to   look.

and I think about      how many false narratives are propagated by fear——“

I’m a bit of a sensualist.

First, let me emphasise emotional resonance,
there has to be an emotional base,
not just an appreciation of hotness.

Then, there’s a sense of longing and mystery—
that male unknowableness.

Don’t forget the hard strength of those rough male edges,
you know, the feeling that he’s kind of sculpted from
a marble that you just want to run your hands over.

And this jet-black hair, the curves and the spiky bits,
casual, careless, not fussy or particular,
and his warm, firm, implacable hands.
Oh, God. Gimmie some.

“Sensuality's connected to desire, ya?” I asked the room (Sunny and Lisa are there, studying).
“It sure is,” Sunny said, flippantly, “and you just need that hot boyfriend of yours to spank it out of you.”
“No,” I winced, “that’s not true.”
“Ooo! I love this song” Lisa said, as ‘try’ by BETWEEN FRIENDS began to play on our Echos.
.
.
Songs for this:
this is what falling in love feels like by JVKE
golden hour by JVKE
.
.
Our cast
Sunny, (suitemate) 21, a (pre-med) molecular, cellular, and developmental biology major, is a cowgirl from Nebraska (seriously, she has a quarter horse and barrel races). She’s an outspoken fem-facing ladies-lady.

Lisa, (roommate) 21, my bff and a high society princess, who grew up in a 50th floor Central Park South high-rise. A (pre-med) molecular biophysics and biochemistry major.

Your author, a simple, multinational, upper-crust, trust-fund baby from Athens, Georgia who's also a molecular biophysics and biochemistry major (pre-med).

One-sided is an understatement.
I would have been stubbornly, blissfully, intoxicatedly yours, until my chance bore fruit.
But here I am... losing myself to a dream I've already woken from.
Losing the motivation to be anything more than a shell of the happiness you brought into my deluded mind.
Losing my reason to keep trying, because ****...
One-sided was such an understatement.
Here I am, a blank page with edges slowly crinkling under the pressure of the beautiful masterpiece we could have painted.
I was too stubborn, too invested, too hopeful that my mistakes wouldn't crack the eggshells I'd been walking on with you for so long. But *******, I ruined it. I know my flaws, my weaknesses, and they run on repeat in my mind, reminding me of all the times I felt myself hurt that precious, unreachable treasure.
And now, the distance between us would make even the furthest stars seem but a step away.
One-sided is an understatement... And now I look back at the mirror that is 'us,' me on one side and you on the other, and I can't help but feel I'll never be as close as I was in the past to breaking through the barrier of reality...
The barrier of my dreams.
I missed my chance... I missed my shot, and now here I am... missing the you I could proudly brag to everyone was mine... even if it was but the smallest piece of you I dared to dream of owning.
My motivation, my favorite voice, my favorite person... the one I never owned... but the one my heart longed for... for so long.

Don’t leave me alone
I can’t even feel my heartbeat anymore.
I see it in your eyes, the hesitation,
But please, don’t go. I’m slipping, panicking.

I know you need something I can’t give,
Something buried too deep to reach.
You turn away, reluctant to look,
Afraid of what you’ll see in me.

I sink to my knees, too tired to fight,
Sleep won’t come, but death is near.
He stands at my door, key in hand,
Waiting. patient. certain.

Fear wraps me in riddles,
But I know I’m still here,
Still grasping for one last moment
Just for tonight, will you hold my hand?

One last time, whisper your goodbyes.

When the earth celebrates
        a solar year,
The cost of life whispers
        in my ear.
It rose up, the easy act
        won't backup.
The easiness of faceless
        is being asked,
"What is it the result?" I ask.
It's easy for people to leave.
It's easy to be devalued.
It's easy for mind to linger past.
It's easy to reminisce moments,
Cherished memories— yet to be
         closed as a chapter.
It's paradoxical—they face the same.
"What is it the result?" I ask.
It's paradoxical—they feel the same.

I almost made it through today without thinking about you.
But then I smelled something like your hair —

dusk in early May,
like lilacs giving up,
and July the rest of the time —
like someone’s still grilling down the block
even though the party ended hours ago.

Like a memory that keeps overstaying its welcome.
(Like I’d forgotten how to forget you.)

(Anyway,
I started googling “what’s the opposite of nostalgia”
but halfway through I forgot
what I was looking for.)

Got $9 boba with a friend I haven’t seen in years.
There was too much ice,
the grass jelly kept clogging the straw.

I told her I was fine.
(I wasn’t.)

I teethed each tapioca like a guillotine
to feel something smash.

(I kept biting the ice too —
felt like breaking tiny bones in my mouth
and pretending they weren’t mine.)

(She kept talking about her new boyfriend —
I think his name was Ben or Matt or Disappointment.
He was younger than us
but just as dumb.)

Anyway, I saw our old dance professor at the grocery store.
He asked about you.

(I lied.)
I said you were doing great,
(but I was lying to keep you in a cage
of things I never wanted to admit to myself.)

He looked at me like he knew I was just rearranging wreckage
from a storm we used to dance in.
(Get it?)

(Oh, and by the way —
I still have your sweatshirt.)

It’s at the bottom of my laundry basket,
but I can’t wash it.

It smells like October
and a bad idea I refuse to stop romanticizing,
a wound I can’t stop picking at.
(I tried throwing it away once —
but it felt like pushing someone
out of a lifeboat.)

I almost wore it last week,
but I couldn’t —
like putting on a ghost
that still remembers my name.
like putting on a bruise
just to see if it still hurt.
(I think I wanted it to.)

Anyway, did you know
memories leave like party guests —

half of them forgetting to say goodbye,
the rest lingering in the kitchen,
picking at crumbs
like they might stay forever?

(I kept trying to swallow my gum
just to see if I could.)

I keep thinking about the time
I tried to make you laugh
by pretending my hand was a spider —

(I got tangled in my own fingers
and you called me impossible.)

(I set alarms for stupid times now —
4:13, 7:29, 10:04 —
like if I time it right,
I’ll wake up different.)

Anyway, I saw your name
carved into a bathroom stall in the city.

(Unless it wasn’t yours —
but what are the odds?
Pretty high, actually.)

I stared at it too long.
Some girl in a bucket hat walked in,
gave me a look
like I was unraveling in real time.

(I was.)

So I smiled at her
like I was chewing glass.
(I hope she’s having a great day.)

Oh, and I found your zippo lighter in my trunk last week —
matte silver, your uncle’s from ‘Nam.

I swore I’d lost it.
I keep the lighter in my cup holder now —
like a threat I don’t know how to make.

(I tinker with it at red lights —
like I’m trying to burn something down
but forgot what.)

(Sometimes I imagine flicking it open
and holding it to the sleeve of your sweatshirt —
just to see if I’d go through with it.)

I stopped going out for a while,
but last month I had three beers
and told some guy on a barstool
that I still dream about you —

(That’s not true.
I dream about losing my teeth,
then hiding them in my ears,
getting in very slow motion car crashes,
and realizing I’m too drunk
to perform the play I’m the lead in,
but I think they mean the same thing.)

I saw a crow yesterday.
Anyway, it reminded me of you.

(It perched outside my window
like it knew something —
kept tilting its head
like it had a secret
and didn’t care if I figured it out.)

I almost followed it,
like maybe it was waiting
to lead me somewhere
you never made it back from.
(Oh, and by the way —
I still love you.)

Anyway, how’s your heart?
(And why can’t I stop writing
like you might answer?)

(Anyway, I’ve started talking to myself in the car —
Sometimes I pretend I’m singing with you.)

It’s really fun.
It’s sad, but it’s fun.

I keep writing you into my poems
like I’m building you a place
to come home to.

I keep retelling the ending
like I’m trying to dig you out —
like if I say it soft enough this time,
you’ll remember how it’s supposed to go.
(Anyway, that might be the worst part:
I’ll never know if you hear me.)

Maybe I haven’t been healing,
maybe I’ve just been waiting.
Waiting for you to come back and tell me that I’m worth it.
But maybe I need to be the one to say it.

Anyway, I hope you’re okay.
(I mean that more than I mean anything else.)