whatever sprinkles your donuts, dude

‘Hi (deadname),

You’ve been on my heart a lot. I miss you and hope you’re doing well.’

A second text follows a moment later; no words, just a link to Noah Kahan’s Willing and Able.

I stare at the wall while I listen to it. I’m not sure if I’m breathing; if I move at all I feel myself sinking deeper into the mire, like quicksand.

What did you hope to achieve by sending this? I reply eventually.

‘Hopefully talk, reconnect. You’re my sister. I love you and think of you often. You’ve been on my mind.’

The song is still looping. I feel like someone’s scooped out my insides. I don’t have anyone to talk to about it. I haven’t in all these years. But I try anyways.

I don’t know why but I stand in the corner, facing the wall, like a child putting themselves in time out. I refuse to cry. I imagine how it might go, if I compromise my safety for the farce of conditional love. Share a beer. Meet her kid. Make the strawberry salad she likes. Hear her reiterate she doesn’t think people like me deserve the same rights she does. That we belong in cages. Put down like animals.

You’re my sister. I love you and think of you often.

I clutch my ribs. I’ll never have what I want. It’s pointless to lament. It’s pointless to wish else-wise. The person they envision when they conjure those memories and that they claim to love isn’t real. It isn’t you. They love an idea, a projection, an invented scaffold they can stick any sentiment they please to.

You’re my sister. I love you.

it’s a secret I keep tucked inside my chest, with this heart of mine that's guilty, not remorseful/

I *devoured* all nine available episodes of Witch Hat Atelier in one sitting yesterday.

It’s so good. I’m unwell.