boys who won’t kiss boys you looked at me like you wanted to kiss me but you didn’t, so i got you off and you stayed the night and then you left and now you snap me back like it’s a chore. . i’ve spent the week swallowing this sensation…

unbearable it’s dumb that i still write about you. i haven’t seen you in two years. the glimpses don't count, a fair and a funeral. . the whole thing is fucked — was fucked. . i’d almost forgotten how it felt to try and interpret you, to delve inside your head. . but now i’ll see you in a week or so? what’ll that be? another glimpse? . or will i feel your fingers pressed against my eyelids, pulling them open?

notes for god does god crumple lives between his hands does he scrape souls from bodies like seeds from an apple core? . give them back. give them back. give them back.

if you had gone to the hospital i can imagine you in this hospital bed. chest rising. falling. eyelids fluttering when our mother whispers your name. you have a stitch across your face from when your forehead struck the glass. you mumble and i press a spoon to your lips. …

yo — 11.53 pm i won’t do it for you. that’s the gist of these past two years, this silence. . i will let you have whatever you want if you tell me you want it. . you have that kind of power over me. i am at the foot of a false idol…

reciprocity you appreciate it, huh? i guess it was for you anyways. but maybe it was for me too — to thaw out a bit of resentment, to let myself be kind, thoughtful even. so why does authenticity always reward this same auto-fill response. like you don’t even know me. like i’m some stranger. . maybe i am. . maybe i am.

pluck it out i want my sexuality to be a string of fairy lights, a campfire and the strum of a guitar, windburn and sun tanned skin. . clothes on this time. no more hotel rooms. no more parking lots. no more kisses with eyes open. i want to make…

sippy cups talking to you makes me sad. . it’s like drinking nostalgia, lips pressed against a cool familiar glass, the kind your fingertips graze when you dig through the…

beach boys i still see phantoms on the pavement, teenagers sticky with salt, but they’re dead, memories buried beneath buoys and bones. i’m drunk and i need to scream. where are you. what the fuck is happening . come back. come back. come back.