you ask, and i lie.

I'm not okay, sometimes.

Some days are worse than others, some days tangle themselves about my diaphragm and shorten my breath. But maybe it's just the weight of my chest; or maybe it's the pull of the heavy twenty dollars in my pocket, meant to be spent on men's shirts. Every time, I get too scared to buy them though. I'm afraid of her, of being a disappointment, of being her kid: the fuck-up.

She makes me feel like a little girl, when I'm trying so hard to be a full-grown gentleman.

... Other days I feel guilty, because I could have it so much worse.

Still, it hurts. And I feel confused about everything.