Truth and Other Diseases

— Central Park, New York City

Don’t be eye candy. Be soul food.

“what are your plans for the future?”

I’m sad but I still want to fuck you, spent ten hours crying next to a stranger over the Atlantic, couldn’t stop thinking about your skin pressed under my fingertips the way your mouth tastes like Haribo Gold-Bears the way one of us is always leaving the other. and I want to fuck you like only the past fucks you. and I want to fuck you like you fucked me. I want to kiss every blank page in my passport arms still open for a visa stamped in your country, masturbate in an airplane bathroom, pull the sheets over my own head and never move again never think about the way we moved again. I’m sorry I called myself a dog. I’m not sorry I called you a coward.