Some nights I just want to talk to you. Get a true sense of us.
Learn the ins and outs of your childhood stories. Take a brisk walk
through those old Warhammer books. We’ll tell stories of the times
we ran from cops and stole from Target. About the time we kissed
boys who someone calls their daughter. About the times we were sons
before we became children. About the times we made our bodies into pyres.
How their glow was unlike any other. Amber flames. Yours and mine.
Queer shared passions becoming the caulk of cisgender atrophy.
Yes, neither of us get how this living thing is supposed to work.
Indirectly asking you to tell me it’ll be alright. A paranoia,
fueled by visions of bodily decay and societal malice,
fills my every waking moment, save for when I listen to your exposition.
Lovers are a good way of forgetting the world around you. A home
of speckled skin and ample amor. Burying my head - broken skull - into
the chest of someone makes it all go away. Ramble about nothing
into the tear-stained shoulder of one of my emergency contacts.
Most nights my brain tries to kill me. I’m told it's built wrong for being. The cracks,
the ravines in the flesh have to be filled up with medications and pills
and DBT binders and ad nauseam. I feel sick most days, my thoughts forming
a pressure on my throat compressing it ever-smaller. One day it’ll snap.
I’ll go bald at thirty and my voice will drop lower and my stubble with
scratch against the chin when I try to kiss you but I’ll leave those fears inside you.
Forget a world that hates our love and our bodies and our bodily love and we’ll just
talk.
So let me tell you about Chaos Space Marines and strange medical phenomena
and the meaning of some French horror film that neither of us
truly understand.
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