Something That I Wrote When I Was Sad, Which Is A Thing That I Am Not Anymore (I Mean Sometimes, I Guess, But It's Mostly, Largely Fine)

diary

I’d like to strip the tissue of my thigh like string cheese. I imagine the white tastes of hearts of palm and the red of oyster sauce. The only reason I talk out loud is so you can disagree with me. I feel constantly reduced. Something that naturally grows exponentially, but is supposed to be minimized, squeezed rotten, forced against its nature. A sponge, perhaps. The problem with the sponge metaphor is that it implies use. I want to force your soft dick inside me, like funneling toothpaste back in the tube with just your fingers. I think of this as pure sex; you think of this, at best, a thought barely worth forming into words. I am not afraid of men emotionally, nor physically—that’s a laugh—but intellectually, they can only but seize me with fear. A man finding out you know relatively nothing about the Byzantine Empire makes you vastly weaker than a broken heart, far more null than a dead body. It makes you something that purposefully chooses to be capable of nothing, which is obviously worse than a nothing choosing to be something, or a nothing choosing to be nothing. Writers are selfish—good people don’t feel the need to write things down, they don’t crave immortality. Good people let their thoughts live and die, not live and keep on living. I regularly ask myself questions as if I’ll ever have the energy to respond, never mind knowing the answers. Angel, don’t you understand that your asking for love is the sole reason why you’ll never have it?

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Cover art: Malcolm T. Liepke, End of the Night (2017)