.

No gay has all 5:

I’m learning a lot lately about the visitation rights of a memory, and how it feels to have joint custody of yourself with yourself.

“I dig myself up from the wet mud. throwing all the love poems out of the window I die with the sunset in my eyes. I ask myself for advice, I betray myself, ungratefully seeking for love in a man, high on disappointment. I do not blossom. I do not grow, I am thirsty. I do not rain on myself anymore. Oh, how our love is compared to a cactus. Dry, with millions of thorns. I have grown through you, I became a peony, I became an orange tree, desirous for love, fruitful and dying with every sunset and sunrise. I dig myself up. and I promise I will incarnate myself into the past. I dig myself up unlovable, unrecognizable, unforgettable. I put my teeth in revenge like it’s an orange. Through its peel, with all the juice dripping on my lips.”