nonlinear catharsis

i’ve always rounded my age, my height, my weight. metrics that don’t really mean anything but mean everything to someone with the right disease. i’ve always felt closer to death because it’s easier than attempting to re-survive my childhood. most recently i’ve been mentally rounding to 30. i assume this has something to do with the books i’ve been reading lately, learning how to deal with the past and how to speak to your children in the future, sort of splitting the difference between death and where i am now. it doesn’t solve the rounding issue but it makes me more aware of how i handle its presence.

there is a deep-seated belief in me that I am undeserving.

good things are for other people - I am allotted only trouble or baseline. or myself, which I suppose is both.

I give him my tuesday, (his first) and I give him my number. I give him my friday and my local movie theater, a confession on my knees from the passenger seat floor of my own car. I give him my saturday, give myself to him three times and lend him 2 records.

on monday I give him my tentative thursday and he gives me a choice between watching or doing, both at the art museum.

tuesday I give him my preference for firm logistics. tuesday again (later) he takes his thursday back for a second and offers up his evening later then, or later now.

I give him my wednesday and immediately regret it - a sniffle that won’t quit. I want him to perceive me as the girl looking up at him.

I give him my friday on offer and immediately regret it. there’s a class at 5:30. I need to move my body for me.

the class is canceled. I give him my entire friday evening anyway.

he gives me a ride. we decide on seeing, then listening. two beers, one each.

he tells me he had a nice time last saturday. I tell him me too, and that I have to correct myself.

“when I said I don’t fuck people I like, what I meant is I don’t fuck my friends. and I don’t think we’re going to be friends.”

a crime of convenience and nobody gets hurt.

except maybe me. maybe the boy i’m sleeping with.

maybe the boy i’m sleeping next to.

but there is no law.

two black coffees

a corona with a lime wedge at the oldest bar in town

a pickle and 5 fries from a friend’s plate

two lozenges

he asks me what growing up was like.

I tell him it was this: bare feet rinsed in the bathroom sink before dinner, scrubbing with a wet wipe if we were lazy. dad calling every sunday and wednesday night at 6pm without fail. hair washed in the kitchen sink and jumping on the trampoline to dry it off.

I just tell him the parts that look normal.

I tell him when we became the new neighbors I became someone else. someone smaller than I was. someone who stopped going outside because I was busy brooding. no bare feet to wash. nothing waiting for them.

I tell him that when we moved, I tried to kill myself and found myself on the floor of my bedroom.

I have a long shower. I turn the water on and while I wait for it to heat I scroll for porn on my phone. I lose twenty-five minutes and cum twice. the shower is lukewarm so I only shampoo. good enough. I sit on my bed in a towel and cum again. thinking, of course. I buy a ticket to the movies. I wear what I wore yesterday but add an extra layer underneath. I rouge my cheeks and nose and pull on a hat.

I want and I don’t. I want what doesn’t want me back. I want to want what wants. Or maybe who. I don’t know. I want to be alone forever. I want to be unseen. I want to be pursued but I’m too honest to show up as someone else. I want to experience someone else trying. I want to believe that care is common. I want to know it could happen to me. I want to accept it. I want to accept myself.