i'm the rye catcher, catcher in the rye

-having a job

-not having a job

-applying for jobs

-the job market

i want you to know

i wrote this poem after i fell apart.

not instead of.

i want you to know

there are drafts i deleted

because i was too much in them,

too unresolved.

i’m someone

still figuring out

how to be in a body,

how to stay,

how to want things

without apologizing for it.

i want someone to see

the specific, difficult truth of me

and not go quiet.

not take a step back.

not look at me like i’m something

Sex is special. By which I don't mean that you must only have it with someone you're in romantic love with.

But what makes sex hot, what gives it its erotic charge, is being seen, having a part of you that you don't normally show exposed, on display for your partner to see. There's something embarrassing about it, and that's the whole point. That's the fun.

That kind of fun takes trust because it's predicated on vulnerability. And trust builds slowly.

So casual sex is empty. It's mechanical. It's having someone there who is no more present than your vibrator would be. It's a human need to be seen. To be witnessed. To be paid attention to. Figured out.

And that's why we feel so lonely. I can find someone to put their hand down my panties tomorrow, but that's not the same thing as being seen.