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Kindle Notes & Highlights
in the old world: your mother takes a glossy photo from its sleeve and says ‘you are such a pretty thing.’ and now: ‘you were. you were. you were. when did this happen?’ you aren’t. there is nothing to return to.
the rich say “oh i wish it was more. oh i wish i was martyr.” the poor say “next in line please” & go home to die
to be christened boy / in your boyfriend’s jacket / to be silhouetted in the shadow / of your sex / to have passing strangers believe / your deception / to no longer deceive
there’s a six-car pile up in my gut. i’m choking on rhinestones.
there is a tornado in the attic and everyone you tell says the weather is nice today. you find bruises on your knees and do not remember how they materialized. you wish you had the nerve to kiss strangers or believe in love.
and he says he can’t love you, even with your guard down. so you kiss and it only hurts when you stop to really think about it, like sucking on a rotten tooth just to feel the ache and satisfy the wince.
18 & life is so large with opportunities, it looks more like rotting citrus.
all of us crying at graduation like frenzied cicadas. all of us gripping each other tight like the last day of high school isn’t just another day.
his yawning indifference while we watch traffic out the window. include the framing: a coffee table between us, his living room a stagnant mouth. separate cells. he says ‘next time?’ i watch the traffic. the director doesn’t call for a cut.
my birthday this year: antidepressants & the dread of “i was not meant to live this long”
when you were little, you used to tell people you wanted to be a cowboy. someone always answered back “you mean cowgirl” but you knew what you meant. cowgirl never had the same ring to it.
you are reading richard siken, which is to say you are homosexual & panicked by your existence.
you’re so polite with your sadness. you don’t want to ruin this for anyone.
you are going to be 20 & you are going to be a wailing asteroid for the rest of your life. 2 years ago you were supposed to be dead.
a man killed another man & someone bore witness & thought “i could do that.” & it became tradition & the man became a country & the rest is history.
wear my daddy’s jacket, his jeans, as if this will cultivate an acceptance. man at the gas station calls me dude then second guesses. i’m melting my gender into the sidewalk.
this brittle collection of limbs ive coddled for you to make a bed out of. my loathing made small & menial in the shadow of your love. dwarfed by the hands you cast over me. your hands, touching me, that could smother any fire, could clench quick as a snake strike. your hands polishing me until i bleed honey into the mattress.
