roscoe

this isn't chronological. you know who i am.

[eastsidelovers]

a time when you really thought you could catch your tail

[eastsidelovers]

(homesick?)(i avoid thinking about the past these days--homesickness feels like a distant breakup i think)

[eastsidelovers]

i built a beautiful life just for everything i've ever known-everything i've ever worked for, to be uprooted and taken away from me. i have no clue where i am. signed, should've

[eastsidelovers]

potential tshirts cuz you forget the things you like:

- townes van zandt

- silver jews

- jeff rosenstock

- fish. like. those swimmy things

honestly, do you remember who you were before you wanted to be just like [reserved ] ?(wannaberedneck) or did i find myself? and what about that thrum in my chest when i think about it?(homesick?)(iavoidthinkingaboutthepastthesedays--homesicknessfeelslikeadistantbreakupithink)

(doyourememberhowyouputontheredneckbittogiveyourselfanoddsourceof. Comfort. ?) is it coming back to you now?/------do you miss [reserved ] or a time before him or a time when you really thought you could catch your tail or are you looking for digestable problems to break through the dissociative Grityourteethandgetthroughit-haze you've been in for days or less or more lately. and i wonder whyi'vestarted typingjustlikethewayi think

- hoonigan

- wrc

- rangers

[eastsidelovers]

okay. i’m getting rid of nearly everything i own and parting ways with nearly everything (i am a sentimental boy that has never let go of anything-anyone-ever). my mother is throwing away baby pictures. drawings from early 2009. the hospital bracelet from when i was born. “they’re all scanned in and photographed” which she says is the best she can do. my house is a war zone. there was always a delicate balance between my father’s immaturity, my mother’s impatience, and my jaded mediation. there is no balance anymore.

i can’t believe i’d ever say this, but its easier to be around my father right now.

[eastsidelovers]

unfocused. scrambled.

backend. backstage. back entrance.

our chairs are back to back. i lace my shoes up. i shot the dog. or maybe you did. the audience loves it even if they know its wrong.

[eastsidelovers]

brought the chair in.

sat it down, maybe a little further in than i was welcome to. he awkwardly moved a gift bag on a table, probably saw the confused look on my face. moved the bag again, saw a gun underneath. whatever. who doesn’t have one.

earlier in the day he mentioned his boyfriend liked ducks. that they have duck trinkets all over the house. i saw one, laughed and said i loved it.

“do you want me to show you around?”

“sure,”

so he takes me to his living room. its rural trans masc bliss. fishing prints. duck decoys. theres a christmas tree up. he excuses the mess, him and his boyfriend are getting the decorations up.

he doesn’t say much about his boyfriend. he brings him up occasionally, but not a lot. only found out his name today.

i notice a sculpture for a class we took together further back in the house. i point it out. i’ve accidentally invited myself further in. i know he has to leave soon.

“this is my ‘studio’ i guess,”

“you play guitar?”

i see a fender in the corner

he does. i just sold my bass, but i bought a new casio today. i wonder if i’ll ever pick music back up.

“my room is in the basement, i’d show it to you but its a mess right now,”

i wasn’t even thinking about that because i know that if i did i’d--

“i know you have to go soon, so i can start heading out.”

i’m known for overstaying my welcome.

i turn around and walk towards the door quickly. i’m starting to put on my shoes and he stares at me. quick jokes and half half subtle half flirting about how i feel very watched, how he’s waiting for me to fall so he can save me, right?

i stand back up.

he looks at me like he doesn’t want me to leave. its in his eyes. i have to look away, because i almost habitually reach in to hug him. kiss him? and i go blind momentarily. i realize i am at the back of my head. i say goodbye. walk out.

i don’t know. i think i’m fucked.

[eastsidelovers]

[eastsidelovers]

i'm going on testosterone.

i haven't really told anyone, i just need this for myself.

[eastsidelovers]

do you ever think happy thoughts?

[eastsidelovers]

i don't feel right. i must not have touched my sketchbook in days.

[eastsidelovers]

my ribs are killing me, baby. the threads are old and coming undone. what used to be flesh has turned to grey. but i take breaks now. i don’t dream of you more than five days a week, eight hours a night. the face of my grief has turned into a therapy shaped hole, filled with alcohol, weed, forgetting to eat and sleep, sometimes sneaking knives into my room, and the occasional intake appointment with a therapist.

[eastsidelovers]

here's the thing. you know that every time that pops up, it was because of me.

[eastsidelovers]

last thursday night, i spent hours researching hrt. i told my best friend. i was 87% sure i wanted to do it. he said, “can i play devil’s advocate?” and i said, “yes,” and he said, “are you sure you want to do it? its a permanent change.”

i laughed.

(i say shit without thinking. i will always say yes to him without thinking. i won’t think about the consequences with him. that’s what happens when this shit is indescribable.)

i get where he’s coming from. but i feel weird, wasn’t it painful to watch me struggle for years to insist i was a girl when i so clearly never quite wore it right? do you really think this is something i’ve decided overnight?

[eastsidelovers]

the artist doesn't think like the audience does

[eastsidelovers]

one (1)

i was never actively suicidal.

it wasn’t until i was shaking on the floor, (was i drunk?) staring at my wrists realizing that i may have fucked it up this time.

there was never a solid date and time, (why would there be?)

it wasn’t until the blood was dripping on the floor that i texted my friends, in complete fucking crisis, completely fucking incoherent,

“does she still have all your knives?”

“see, here’s the part you’re not going to like.”

i ripped a page out of a hard bound sketchbook. (there were rules?) addressed it to you, don’t totally remember what i said, something along the lines of “i think i might have accidentally ended it tonight, don’t blame yourself, i love you”

i write backwards to obscure what i say, as if my erratic way of jumping from thought to thought wasn’t enough. work for it. i don’t make easy listens. i give you something to analyze. everything has a reason.

or maybe i’m just a shit writer

i remember when i came back to my dorm room. everything was untouched. a half empty jug of milk sitting outside my fridge. the note in front of the door. a pile of blankets on the floor by the window, because i spent a whole week crying. my goldfish swimming in their tank on top of my desk. blood on the floor. i was wearing that bullets long sleeve.

blue jeans.

that’s how you know i’m sad. when i’m wearing colors? some part of me must love myself, because i do everything i can to try and cheer myself up.

want to talk about it?

some other part of me must hate myself, because he says “fuck this,” and i don't remember where i was going with the sentence, which is actually the problem.

endings. i was never too good at those. and yet i keep apologizing for it instead of trying to fix it.

[eastsidelovers]

111 and that room brightening smile of yours