i quite like myself
slouched over a television with a broken remote,
pale skin alive with glowing colours
at 3:33 in the morning
i think i am at my best
when i am hovered
over the kitchen sink just after dark
running hot water
over my raw fingers
i feel great
when i am sprawled across my bed
crying before i even wake up
sun pushing, unwanted,
through a dirty window
i am very happy with who i am
i say aloud in the car
while i consider driving into a tree
i am very happy with who i am
your exboyfriend series... did you date all those guys just last year when you were in south america?
Yes, I dated them last year. The entire title is “The Ex Boyfriend Series: South America”.
Do your exes know about the photos you're showing in Peru?
Yes, in varying degrees. The photos were shown in NYC last year.
You were perfect, with your perfect desires and your perfect decisions. When we met, it was perfect. All the days and dates after the first were perfect. Even our break-up was perfect. You joked that even the clouds did not dare ruin our break-up day. I laughed at your last joke. In your mind, I was perfect. “You’re staring,” I’d said. “I’m just smiling,” you’d said. In your mind, I was perfect for your timetabled, temp-controlled, manicured-lawn life. I liked you because you stared and just smiled. I’d felt your lashes on my skin, and your teeth on my fingers, on perfectly cloudless days. When you stared and just smiled, you were perfect. But we weren’t perfection. The one cloud, your closing joke, was that I didn’t stare and just smile back.
(This Swiss boy is currently doing his perfect Swiss banking in Switzerland.)
Rachel McKibbens, “Letter From My Brain To My Heart”
Why do I burst with joy every time you post an update? Do you understand this feeling? You're a stranger and I don't know you but I just feel happy. I wish your blog never ends. I wish you will never leave (although you always say you do) and every time you do, thank you for taking UNPUNK with you.
These messages make me feel uncomfortable, in an oddly good way. You shouldn’t be a stranger to me.
So, I have been following these love stories of yours and I kind of feel like, I feel like...I don't know. 'Alas', 'regret'--something close to those words. I just, I feel like I'm rooting for every boy you loved and I'm rooting for you. And I don't know what you feel about these exactly but I really like reading the words you are putting out and I want to know so much more. Why can't you just be with every boy you loved? I'm not directing this question to you but to the heavens.
Whoever you are, you made me sad. I think we should be friends. (But like everything else, friendship ends.)
People didn’t understand us. People were jealous. You, with your non-specific gender fluidity wrapped in a leather jacket. Me, with my cheap attitude and anti-bullshit accent. You, with your disapproval of cigarettes. Me, with my drug pushing and your approval of that. When the volcano almost erupted, we dragged ourselves out and watched the ashes make a mess. You told me your secrets, and I told you lazy lies. Maybe we should’ve married. Maybe the volcano should have erupted, while we were eating rum and raisin ice cream. “I can be your first husband.” My visa was up and you could have been my first husband, rum and raisins and all. My visa was up and so many people were jealous, leather jacket and all. “No, asshole.” In my head, you were my second husband, and I was your first wife.
(This Colombian boy is currently in Istanbul, doing his pansexual thing.)