visits

B, you make me say and think and feel embarrassingly cliche things. during each monthly mini-vacation we have together i find myself falling in love with you all over again and again. two and a half years and the butterflies still come. recently i’ve caught myself thinking “there is no way anyone could possibly be more in love or more lucky than i am,” and i think that’s how love should feel: like you’ve achieved the impossible.

naked

fuck me with my elbow pad on. 
shake the bed to rattle the pill bottles on the nightstand. 
pause your body on top of mine while i gulp a dose of pepto. 

then you will see me 
naked.

don't ask strangers

“what did you do to yourself?” 

they ask, as if i deliberately injured my body. [if it’s an illness, you curse the world; but if it’s an injury, you blame the injured?] 

“i broke my arm when i was thirteen. i have nerve damage.” 

i say, as if answering that question for the third time that day doesn’t make me want to groan. 

“oh, i hope it gets better!” 

oh, you idiot. good job, you said the right thing. the ‘get well soon’ response. 

“it’s permanent.” i say, as if this personal, private, difficult struggle with chronic pain and disability is something that belongs in your petty small-talk.

are you seeing anyone?

his name is Brandon and he is great! he’s queer, he’s here, get used to it. he’s fat and always wants to know if you like fat guys. he writes poems and makes jokes, usually at the same time. he likes to cook for people and play board games. he hates cats and is allergic to nuts so if you eat nuts you have to wait 2 hours before kissing him. he does not own a bed, and one wall of his bedroom is decorated with nautical-themed antiques. his favorite color is purple, which is also my favorite color so i think that’s why we get along so well.

art v. death

i think about death a lot. and for me, at least, the desire to create is very close to the fear of dying. i could die tomorrow. i could be stabbed to death like that kid from my hometown; i could be hit by a car while studying abroad like my friend Adam. improvisers don’t die but somehow he did.

i could die tomorrow, but at least this blog post would still be here to show you how ironic that would be. one last laugh before i go.