Share My Universe

Like: me.

Nothing I ever do works though.

I think the walls are making fun of me. But if that’s the case Then they can also read this Since most of the reasons They’d antagonize me Is all based on the visual interpretation Of a man falling apart. The rejections come as text messages The pain comes as self-hurt and crying And the angst comes from the multiple Times I switch clothing Because I look bad in everything. And maybe they agree But if they can see And make fun of me Then why won’t they reveal they’re here When I reveal I’m so lonely.

It's officially Saturday The world didn't end like I expected So I guess I should refrain From driving off a bridge So that they won't be short staffed at work. I wish someone cared about me as much as I Cared about people who are Increasing insignificant. But that's who I am. I'm becoming ill. I can feel some sort of sickness Creeping up on me Deep down in my soul And throat And I'm embracing it. I don't want to die But I'm not gonna be upset if it happens It's inevitable anyway. Just hopefully it comes soon So I don't have to wake up for work on Sunday.

I took every drag of your cigarette personally Watching it deteriorate in some new form of 3D And then you proceeded to kiss me And although you tasted like an ashtray A taste I'm used to from my past I was just happy that you'd do such a thing When you know my obsessive nature Will probably derail this Midnight train. I can't come with you I have my own issues to break And please don't kiss me again It'll seal my fate.

It's like the notion of being any better Sets the rest of the world on a spree To hinder me Specifically But then why would it care that much. I see things that upset me Make me Seethe And bleed Shortness of breath For a breadth Of unavoidable conflicts That I feel could have been changed From flipping a different switch. That's why I'd rather not flip any. If I don't touch anything Nothing can fail But I doubt I can even do that well.

I had arrived somewhat early to the bar Grace and I go to for our Thursday night happy hours. Part of me wishes I would’ve stayed in and tried out the new Mario Kart combos I found online, but I’m a stickler for tradition. Grace and I always managed to have a pretty decent time together, even if it was always her choosing to voice the concerns she had in her relationship. There’s this exceptionally chauvinist subset of the population, I believe, that seems to have an issue with men and women just being friends. That’s all I’ve ever known of Grace though. She’s been dating CJ since I’ve met her, and has only ever had relationship issues as far as I know. I’m always willing to listen though. It’s not like there’s anything going on with me romantically. There never is. Had I ever considered dating her? Sure. Once or twice maybe. Like if she was ever suddenly single, I wouldn’t jump as the chance to be a rebound, or something better. I can’t confidently say I’d be opposed either. We’d probably just continue to do what we’ve been doing, Thursday night happy hour, and we’d talk about movies and upcoming concerts. She’d ask me about my non-existent love life, then feel bad she asked, we’d close our tabs and go to our respective homes. Her woes would shift from relationship woes to political or work-related. I’d still listen all the same. She works as an assistant at a law firm, a job her father got her before he passed last summer. She doesn’t haste it, per se, but thinks it’s funny that out of all the partners, the woman treats her like a second class citizen. “Power is power” I reiterate. Having weekends off must be enough for her to continue to put up with it. I wouldn’t know. I work weekends. I knew her father fairly well, although Grace and I have only been acquaintances for a little over a year. He was my senior-year African-American History teacher, and even before one of the heads of the Student’s Diversity Union. He got a lot of shit for in those roles as a white man, but as soon as he showed up downtown at one of the BLM marches, that talk ceased immediately. He’s my personal pick for the definition of a White Ally. It’s crazy how much Grace took after him. I never met her mother, but she’s black, and a teacher as well. Saw her in a picture once. Grace looks just like her. When he died, I had known Grace a couple months. We met at a year-end barbeque he hosted for all his students. Grace actually showed up (she had a history of “Forgetting about it”), much to everyone’s surprise. Hugo talked a lot about his daughter, but it was unknown if 1. She was worthy of such praise, and 2. Would talk about him in such a fashion. Grace’s mother was overseas at the time. It’s actually pretty strange that we haven’t met, but I think her and Grace are still at arms. Hugo Gaspar died of lung cancer (he was the definition of a chain smoker), and when Grace’s mother didn’t see that as a good reason to quit, Grace lashed out. They did embrace at the funeral though. I looked at my watch and realized Grace was late. I grew increasingly anxious. She’s literally never late. Even the bartended looked quizzically. “Is she alright?” “I guess--- I haven’t heard anything.” I was taken aback. She was supposed to be here ten minutes ago, almost on the dot. She’s never late and for her to be running this late baffled me. I shot her a “Where you at” text. No response. Not immediately anyway. I hoped that she was okay, but I also questioned where my head had gone to where I wouldn’t notice her absence until now. The ice in her whiskey had almost completely melted. I ordered another, for her, and started drinking the watered-down one, in anticipation. I hoped this new whiskey wouldn’t have the chance to melt. At the barbeque, Grace and I bonded immediately. She walked in with CJ and a bottle of Jameson, and my ears perked up. Jameson was my (and later, as I found out, also her) favorite alcohol. Across the board. She was a couple years older than I was; graduated from art school the year prior but was a bit late by “normal” standards. Mr. Gaspar was always wanting her to meet his students, but seeing as most of them graduate and either move away (either for a job or to go back home) she never saw a reason to make acquaintance with people she’d never see again. I never got to ask why she attended this year. The first things I noticed about her were the bottle of Jameson and CJ. CJ looked like Ice Cube, but if Ice Cube was a frat boy. It was harboring. The Jameson had a special label on it, something I’d never seen before. I drink a lot of Jameson. After mulling them over I finally fixed eyes on Grace for the first real time. I noticed how different she looked from her father. Not because she was biracial, but because she didn’t look like her father. Really not at all honestly. I’ve still to this day have never seen someone so normal looking, but also so intensely attractive. Her features are very cookie-cutter, when it comes to biracial women, but it’s like she’d cornered that market. She wore eyeliner, a nose ring, and a very light pink lip-stain, and killed it. I snapped out of her assessment when she set the bottle down. “Well my mother calls me Gideon, but I go by Deon,” I replied when CJ inquired about my name. You ever meet a huge, buff, angry-looking pit bull then realize all it was is a treat and backrub? That was CJ. He was a lightweight with liquor, and an extremely picky-eater, but man, dude was nice as hell. We chatted for longer than I ever have with someone I’d just met, but I was waiting for Grace to come back and open this bottle. I never figured out what CJ stood for, but within fifteen minutes I knew his life story, where he went to grade and high school, his college GPA, his previous drug addiction issues; more than I wanted to know about him. He was rounding off the names of all the pets he’d ever had when Grace made her way back into the kitchen. “Did you speak to my father?” She asked him. CJ’s face became embarrassingly white, and he ran outside. “Sorry if he talked your ear off. He can go bother dad now. I’m Grace.” “I’m Gideon. You know, Jameson is my favorite drink.” “Me too.” And then she finally opened the bottle. Grace’s dad died the next week. She was 0-2. The second whiskey has melted and I was already buzzing pretty hard so I backed off a bit. It was seventeen after eight, happy hour ended at nine (for us regulars), and Grace was still not seen or heard from. I signaled to Teddy, the bartender. “What the hell. Third time’s the charm, right?” I could barely finish speaking before he started pulling another glass from the bar. “Am I pouring another two again?” “Nah just one, and a Corona for me. Please. I’m not finna sit here and keep paying for watered-down double shots.” Teddy laughed. I was drunker than I thought. Remember the quip about CJ being a lightweight? I’m a welterweight. Teddy placed the new whiskey down next to me and put the bottle of Corona on the bar, then reached for his bottle opener but couldn’t find it. He ran back to other side of the bar to look for it, I used the bottle opener on my key chain, we called it even. I looked down at the other side of the bar to see a couple I’d never seen before drinking Pabst Blue Ribbon. “How much are PBR’s for happy hour?” I asked Teddy as he returned to my side. “Still a dollar, but I usually give them two for that price. They’re my Wednesday night regulars, but they’re out of line coming in on a Thursday.” We laughed. “Gimme your keys. Please.” Grace stood next to me with her hand extended. She did not seem in the mood to talk, nor to drink. I scrambled for my keys. “You okay? You need help with anything?” She shook her head “no.” She marched back outside without saying anything further. I’m nosy. To a fault honestly. I’m that weird guy who peers at strangers’ cell phone screens in public. I don’t know why I do it, and I’ve never gained anything from it other than scowls and “Excuse you, nigga. The fuck?” I can’t help it though. Me following Grace outside was just another punch on my Nosy Timecard. She didn’t seem too startled to shove a massive bag in my tiny trunk (I drive a coupe), and I again asked if she needed help. “I guess.” She wiped her brow and I jogged over to put extra hands on the bag. I didn’t inquire what was in it, but it felt like clothes. We got it in, I shut my trunk, and we went back inside. Grace apologized to Teddy and I immensely and buried herself into whiskey that had not yet melted. She ordered two more, stating “I need to catch up,” but also still want to get them at the happy hour pricing. I ordered another beer and she began to vent. I had tomorrow off. Working retail isn’t the most glamorous shit in the world, but it has never failed me. Just like most people in the country with degrees, my age specifically, I can’t find work in my field. I feel like Mr. Gaspar was my main key to getting work out here in the real world, and well… So now I work retail as a manager of my favorite clothing store and it pays the bills. That’s all I can ask for right now I guess, but I gotta say, I thought it would be easier to get a job as an engineering major. I honestly hated the breadth of school. I moved around a lot in elementary school, struggled to make friends in high school, and just barely made it through college. I like Chicago, a lot. Staying here was my main motivation to buckle down in school, I guess. I never had much luck with women. The last serious girlfriend I had was during junior year of high school, and she left me, at prom, for Brandon McAllister. Brandon is doing okay for himself now I guess. He’s published a couple books and still does signings occasionally. I’m not too sure about Amanda though. I stopped keeping up with her immediately. Past her, I had a couple dates in college and even fewer hookups. I don’t think I’m too unattractive I just never made an effort, I guess. I’m also not exactly feigning for love or sex. I feel like if I want sex I can acquire it, maybe. “…so my sister picked me up and brought me here.” Grace had wrapped up her recollection of tonight’s altercation with CJ. This time was the last time, she reiterated repeatedly. The bag we had just stuffed in my trunk was a handful of her clothes. She’d stay with her sister for a bit until the dust settled, until he got his things and got out. She would return to her apartment in the morning, with her sister, to get her car and go to work. Grace always said her biggest issue with CJ was his adversity to actually be independent and do something with himself. I guess she’d finally had enough; got sick of holding his hand. ‘CJ’s brother lives a bit south so he can go stay with him I guess. I told him he has three days to get the fuck out of my house. I can’t miss work, but Leslie’s [her sister] place is being renovated currently. If I can’t stay with you, I’ll just get a hotel.” “Of course you can stay with me. I’ll give you a spare key even.” “Thanks Gideon.” She always opted to call me by my full name. “Leslie will come to you place in the morning so I can go get my car. I couldn’t find my keys, in anger, but she has a key to my place.” She had calmed down pretty quickly. The whiskey’s where gone almost faster than they had been conjured. I could tell she was buzzed. She continued to apologize, so much so that happy hour had ended. She didn’t care and ordered another round. “Is it bad that I’m already ready to move on?” “No. I don’t think so. I think you’ve been done for awhile and now you’re actually done. Your mind had been wondering for a bit. Got any prospects?” “I don’t know. You’re available aren’t you?” I spit a bit of my drink back into the class in shock. I gazed at her. She was drunk but she looked sincere. “That’s the liquor talking.” We both laughed. A song came on that she raved about and we got up and danced a bit. I looked down at her. “You know if we date we can’t really do happy hour anymore.” “Why not?” “Then what will we talk about?” “Literally anything other than CJ.” I nodded in acceptance. She felt nice. I’d never really gotten the opportunity to hold her but it was good. She felt appropriate. She felt complete, an almost puzzle-like completion. This was way outside of our friendship parameters. I’ll see if she feels the same in the morning. I guess that gives me some time to think. I don’t think that women and men can’t be just friends. I just think people are only willing to risk Friendship for Love, and not Love for Friendship.

Missed my train so I decided to stay My desire to return back home Has been exhausted I didn’t bathe today Just drank from the faucet Way the fuck past lost it I wanna throw some money around Just to say that I tossed it Just to say that I’m stable That my pocket fair currently enables Me to completely rip apart Your brand new underwear I hate to take it there But lust has become my middle name The shit I’m willing to do for a kiss Should honestly Bring me shame But here I remain A relic Just an empty shell like the pistachios you eat To remain sober round your girls So you don’t spill the beans about How unhappy you’ve been I probably don’t contribute To such trivial things But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t trying to sing A new song just because you taken all the ones I’ve loved And made them into bad tattoos I solicit my feelings For a chance to peruse What’s right behind your forehead And while you’re focused on mine Maybe I can be the one To leave this time.

Cake. Cake cake cake cake cake You celebrating like it’s your birthday And I just wanna know Why you hurt me Can we back to square one You know when you didn’t even worry About my well being The time I put in Is indicative of My character In hell peeing Hoping that it lights on fire So it can end me If I die tomorrow Would you ever feel me Nah Highly unlikely I got high alone Of that fact that you liked me And I just wanna go back To simple things Watching movies Late night Dissertations Earning rings Kinda like consolation prizes I look In your eyes it’s Something I’m not in line with Wake up and tell me you don’t fuck with me I guess all this would be easier If you loved me And let me down easily. So fuck you and the horse you came In on Head held high No leg to stand on. I’ll be alright I fucking promise Hopefully the next pussy Is the fucking bombest

Expressing my anger My sadness And my lack of acceptance For how things have gone And before I could address it to you With a "P.S. Fuck you" My pen ran out of ink. So all I have is this angry letter With no recipient And No conclusion Framed above my microwave In this house With no pens To finish it. Maybe you'll come around Before I make a trip to the office supply store.

One day Our daughter will burst in from school With tears in her eyes Because her crush In front of the entire cafeteria Called her some form of "Unpretty" With some anti-black rhetoric thrown in. Her best friend didn't stand up for her Our other kid was nowhere to be found And she almost missed the bus home in embarrassment But here she is In front of us With tears. And I'll embrace you In our old age And show her what love looks like And we'd help her with her home work And fill her sibling in on what happened. She'd be a spitting image of you Glasses and all And she'd tell you when I left the room "You really love daddy don't you?" To which you nod And brush the hair out of her face But you won't even text me back.

Put it on my tombstone.

I'm trying my best to not feel like this.

And she said “So do it.” I quit my job I alienated my family I lost a limb I lost my mind My hair fell out I starved I froze My clothes are destroyed But I did it. And when I went to deliver it to her Someone was already there With the sun. She had changed her mind.