he puts his arm over the seat like he owns us.

he was touching my hair, and telling me about how, at parties, he and his friends try to get girls to make out. he thinks that's hot. he talked about the time two lesbians told him all about their sex life and crying while fucking. when he was talking about sex, he grabbed my hair for just a moment, and pulled- or maybe his fingers were caught in a knot. and i don't want to hate him, but i felt so gross and violated, even though i'm sure most of what he says is bullshit. i felt like he was digging his long fingers into my scalp and through my skull, prodding around in my brain and leaving filthy trails behind.

and i didn't know how to ask him to move his hand.

and the word rape passed his lips too many times.

and i hated my gendered body more than i have in a while.

maybe i'm overthinking it though, he's a friend, and he also talked about guitar and other nice things.

i was enough all along.

lately i've only got a lot of dusty drafts
and happy thoughts,
and i think i never needed you
to make me good.

why did they hurt her, she's kind.

she wrote me a letter

that made my chest-walls buckle--

so when i greeted her today,

i slid my lips beneath the bag

they'd bow-tied at her neck and

marked with "broken,"

i pressed my lips to the bone

and whispered

"they lied."

she called me pretty

and i didn't even doubt it;

she tells truths,

i know because she wrote her note in pen.

like lace more than anything.

the only day you've asked to see me in a month was the day you needed a ride.

which i don't mind giving you, but you have to admit it sounds sad that way, and sometimes i wonder why you got mad that i tried to leave, when you never tell me to come around, when every time you get back with him it looks like you've left me, and it makes me feel small.

well, i understand you probably don't mean anything bad by it and i know you're busy being a kid in like, but can you see why it stings?

this girl gets visibly uncomfortable when i talk about being gay, but she's home for only two weeks, has a dozen other good friends who wouldn't think to argue with her about racism or feminism or guns the way i do-- and she's been sure i've seen her twice already.

and i like you both, for your different reasons. she makes me feel wanted, even when she's not in town, and you make me feel alive, when you stop by.

but i'm still lonely sometimes and i've hurt myself again thinking about it; we're all full of holes.

spice cabinet monsters.

you smell like you wish you smelled like cigarettes,
you smell like my dirty brassy fingertips,
you smell like mold.

i'm not sure what you think you are,
but this is no forest;
darling, these are the suburbs
you've found yourself in.

and you stole the cinnamon and the nutmeg,
so i can't taste winter like hot coals anymore.

thank god it's nearly over.

(the worst feelings are creeping back.)

blahblahblah
the usual
passive aggressive
lonely grievances.

i just hate how you make me feel.

or i just need more friends.

i just need more medicine.

i just need more sleep.

sleep sleep sleep sleep sleep
until i forget their names.

if only i could stay asleep.

i'm gay though.

i really don't like muscular male builds.
everything about them makes me
uncomfortable.