b! they/them

[prettyboysdontcry]

aaaand more! wow i have lots of complicated feelings about lots of people! you might even call me a Slut

(for max, never sent, original 9/10/24)

I took a long walk today. I walked past your house.

I tried not to, I mean, really, I did- tried to make myself turn due north every block between 14th and 32nd. Tried to make myself just go home.

Walked down the wrong street at first. 32nd Place, not 32nd Avenue. Realized halfway down that my tummy didn’t feel sick enough for this to be right. So I made a left turn at the corner.

First time I laid eyes on the roof, from a block away, from the back: sick with fear and apprehension and nostalgia and, unexpectedly, excitement. Anticipation. Almost bursting with joy.

And I turned the corner. Approached it from the back. Passed the intersection that in my mind is still covered in snow, saw myself layered up against the cold, zoomed in on your black-painted fingernails brushing my chin as you lit my cigarette. The brim of your hat. My dark makeup. Viv’s camera, the flash white hot in the cold dark.

Saw the manhole cover I remember laying on, making snow angels. Snowflakes on our faces, falling into our laughing mouths. Drawing dicks on the hoods of your neighbor’s parked cars, stupid, seventeen.

Passed the wall we used to sit on. Where we used to smoke, where we took that sexy picture, my favorite of the two of us. Passed the spot where Gus used to park, to pick me up for McDonald's breakfast in the morning, his car already hotboxed, full of other people’s DoorDash orders. Sitting in the backseat like a kid, his girlfriend, my lover, dozing off in the passenger seat.

Finally got to, finally passed, the mouth of the alley. Of course I looked left. Saw the car. Even shittier than before, dusty turquoise, chipped and rusted, looked like a flat rear tire, no license plates. Saw the porch I used to wait on when you didn’t get home for hours. Saw the gray pebbled stone I used to squat and piss on when your bathroom was busy. Saw the poor neighbors’ back fence, who we must have tormented. That damn car. We used to drive for hours, you picked me up late at night, the river, the stopped trains, the diner by the airport that stayed open all night. Random parking lots. Dropoffs into nowhere, warehouses, always cold and dark and we were always too loud and too drunk, hiding in dead ends in industrial North Portland. Careening way too fast, way too late, up and down the hills on the way to Sauvie Island, Car Seat Headrest and Radiohead and Jeff Buckley turned up as loud as they could go on your refurbished stereo system, stealing cheap wine from the gas station, parking on the side of the road to smoke on the roof of your car, looking at the stars, not kissing, never kissing, always kissing her and not you.

That night on the playground was different. Just the two of us, Hazel out of the country again. We didn’t invite Viv. Didn't need to ask each other why. Wading through late winter muddy sludge in my stupid shiny platforms, all decked out in buckles and spikes. Up on the ridge overlooking the whole city, all those lights. Your cigarette between my lips, my head on your leather-padded shoulder. Hands that smelled like rust from the metal playground. Hands so cold I put them in yours, and we both put them in your pockets. That night that it would’ve made more sense to kiss you. Wanted to. Don’t know why I didn’t. Then maybe I'd feel better about what happened next. Maybe I wouldn't feel like a liar calling you my ex, saying our breakup traumatized both of us. We never broke up. Because we never dated. Never even kissed or touched each other without someone else there too. KJ, Stella, Hazel. Never just the two of us. Never talked about it with you but i tell everyone else that I was a little bit in love with you. I don't think it would surprise you to know.

I walked past your alleyway and all this came back. And I didn't feel scared. Didn’t feel sick or traumatized, didn’t feel avoidant, didn’t even feel guilty. Felt excited, felt like I was finally maybe coming home. Felt sorry that I hurt you. Sorry that I was so stupid and so seventeen. Why did we stop talking, anyway? What I felt the most was relief. Giddy, childish relief, like maybe I'd get to melt into your arms again after all. Maybe you could light up a cigarette, take me for a drive in your stupid Volvo, like maybe we could have all of it back.

I wonder what you’d say if I wanted to get coffee, baby? Why did we ever stop?

[prettyboysdontcry]

MORE POETRY I AM BACK

(for mary ann: original 8/1/24)

I remember when you told me I seemed like some otherworldly being.

Wading towards you through the murky Rio Grande: me, all sweet tanned skin and copper freckles and sunscreen taste on my lips, you, all river-wet hair and tattooed hands drenched in cigarette smoke.

And the sun was positioned right behind my head so that in my own reflection in the brown water, the rays shot out from my silhouette, perfectly sharp with my freshly buzzed hair, and I looked like Jesus.

You looked at me like I was.

Thought I looked sexy and powerful and told me so. I remember standing right above you, looking down into your big puppy eyes, honey-brown, spilling over mirth and desire. Your eyes full of seeing me, taller than you for once, you taking me in taking you in.

We learned each other on the banks of that river over 3 or 4 days, talked for hours of spirituality and of queerness and of the sensuality inherent in the mountains and the trees.

What I remember most clearly of you are your hands and your eyes.

Your hands when they light a cigarette and pass it to me, practiced in the art of cupping work-roughened fingers by your mouth to guard the flame from the valley wind.

Your hands when they’re at work in your sketchbook, sitting beside me on a tree branch and stealing glances to make sure you’re capturing my smile just right.

Your hands when they’re searching through a bag of cherries to offer me the best one, bringing the small fruits, heavy with summer juice as thick and purple-red as fresh blood, to your open mouth. Spitting out the pits into my front yard.

Your eyes when you’re nervous, us side by side in a group of people, your glance shifting and darting around the circle like a baby deer, ready to flee at the first sign of danger (please take me with you when you run?).

Your eyes when you’re relaxed, below me in the big tree at the end of the river trail, laying on your back and looking up at me through the branches.

Your eyes on your front porch, anticipatory and unsure and lovely, illuminated in the half-moon light, on that night when we both regretted not being braver than the other.

Letters are nice, but I want your eyes to find mine across a crowded room. I want your hands to cup my jaw. I want to be the God you want to see me as, all-knowing and all-loving, a divine fagdyke, lit up from behind by the Colorado sun. I want to wear your headphones while we walk home not holding hands.

[prettyboysdontcry]

In case I don't ever see you again, (and even if I do I will never say this,) (3)

Volunteens

I was you and you will be me. This is the life cycle of queerness, of the band kids, of the kinds of young people who volunteer at their local library and find an identity through the work that they do there. I was you and with any luck, you will be me, and with all the luck in the world and with god willing, we will all grow old and become royalty and not die at our own hands in the dark bathrooms of our childhood.

Take a shower. Don’t start smoking. Keep going to the library, keep letting the librarian youth coordinator see you. Keep looking in the mirror, but don't start looking too hard. Keep being “too much” for the wrong people and being exactly the right amount for the right ones and keep fighting with your parents and keep loving your friends as extensions of your very innermost self. Keep sharing your pronouns upon meeting people and keep eating breakfast and listen to new music every single day. Don't think about school any more than you absolutely have to and keep taking care of your younger siblings when your grown-ups aren't doing it right. That is my recipe for growing old.

Do AmeriCorps or go to college out of state or take a random internship or move in with your big sister as soon as you turn eighteen, if you want to. Get yourself the hell out of here if you want to. You can get exactly whatever it is you wish for. Keep journaling. Keep listening. Keep being gay.

Forget me if you need to, in order to make room for whoever matters in the future, but do not forget that people like me are out there, that you can be us. The world is your oyster, my babies. I was you and you will be me, if you choose to be.

[prettyboysdontcry]

In case I don't ever see you again, (and even if I do I will never say this,) (2)

Claus

Thanks for the clippers. Thanks for the alcohol, thanks for teaching me how to skip rocks, thanks for sitting there in the dark that day so many months ago and saying, “I’m Lucas,” and thanks for understanding when I was confused until you rearranged the anagram and told me your real name, the only one I've ever called you by. Thanks for showing me what a positive, loving, close, gentle, kind, well-intentioned, romantic, and ultimately unrealistic relationship looks like. I'll remember Faith braiding your hair, you moving her stuff into her house while she's in California, the two of you sharing clothes and kisses and inside jokes and meaningful looks and bedrooms but never having sex when I get into my next genuine entanglement. I'll remember her telling me how much she loves you with pain in her voice, her knowing it's time to let go, you riding in the back of Sam's car with an unexplainable air of change about you, you telling me how you love her with pain in your voice, when that lovely entanglement inevitably begins to untangle.

You taught me what a mature adult relationship can look like. You were a wonderful lesbian mother. I hope I see pictures of you in five years, you holding a fish by the lip with a proud grin on your pretty face, with your arms around a beautiful, taller woman who loves having sex with you, in a big city with a big house that you don't have to walk on eggshells in. One of my sweetest memories from this whole year, Claus, is you holding Lucy, backlit in the front doorway of Sam's house in Ashland. I probably never told you, but I will think about you. I will remember.

Thanks for the lessons on mature love and skipping rocks. Thanks for the help on the crossword puzzle. Thanks for the clippers.

[prettyboysdontcry]

In case I don't ever see you again, (and even if I do I will never say this,)

this is the first of a series. these are essentially letters that i wish i could send to their real recipients, the people that were in my life the past year or so and will not be in my life after this summer. instead of sending to the actual people, i am sending them to the whole entire internet. names of people and places and other defining characteristics were changed.

Shana

I was so uncomfortable that night until you took me under your wing. Sitting in the driver's seat after the show, taking our sweet Charlie back to his warm, quiet home, I told him, “If I end up back here in this town when I grow up, that's what I want my life to look like.” I immediately felt like I shared too much, bared my soul to this darling boy who knew me before, but knew me a lot better now. I want to be you when I grow up. Not that I want to marry that man, live in that double-wide in the middle of nowhere, host random high school metal shows on my front porch, but that I want to be that warm. I want to have your smile and your sense of style and to exude safety to all the cold, nervous young people who show up to my strange house at the end of my long dirt driveway.

I was so excited that you were so excited to see me at the party on Friday. I felt so safe knowing you were in the building, seeing you light up when you saw me with my fresh buzzcut. We kept catching each other's eyes during Charlie and Jimmy's set, each of us staring at the man we loved. You at his dirty glasses and scruffy jawline and shuffling Adidas, me at his bubblegum hair and hunched shoulders and silver earring, glinting in the string lights criss-crossing the stage. But we kept seeing each other. I kept searching for your eyes. You remind me of my mother, your child even reminds me of myself. I could see me becoming you, in a perfect dream of adulthood. I could see me in your polka dot dress, your sharp undercut, your keen eyes and easy smile in that dark church sanctuary. Thank you for your warmth, for your connection. For your understanding me, understanding us. I think you were me, doing AmeriCorps as a scared kid all those years ago. I hope I'll be you, comfortable and confident in my relationship and my community and my place after all those years.

[prettyboysdontcry]

If I just keep posting my stuff, eventually I’ll get famous right? Right????? Guys??? Hello????????

J, 6/23 “Sweetness” (on last weekend)

We were sitting around her back patio table, sipping sun tea, before you were awake. Quiet for a moment too long, and your mother said to me: “he wasn’t always this sweet, you know.”

I can’t find it in myself to believe her. You are everything sweet.

You’re sweet like Miya’s strawberry kiwi vape, the kind of sweet that stings my throat and my lungs, that burns like heaven and tempts me back for more.

You’re sweet like the bubbling, babbling creeks we passed on the way to your mother’s house in Fruita. Pretty, crisp, sparkling, the kind of sweet that makes me want to strip to my socks and jump joyfully into you, despite the icy shock I know awaits.

You’re sweet like the drinks your mom’s boyfriend made for us, playing Scrabble around your coffee table at two A.M., already far gone on hard lemonade and tequila shots and each other's heartbeats. We didn’t know what we were drinking but we accepted out of politeness, none of us prepared for the sharp bite of liquor on the tail of syrupy sweetness.

She said you weren’t always this sweet. She said this to justify her treatment of you, screaming and shoving when you brought the paddleboard into her house, the bull in her perfect china shop, unwelcome in the museum she curated out of your childhood home.

I can’t believe that you weren’t always this dangerously sweet, dear honey darling angel boy. Sweet like our favorite fruity drinks, $6 for a six pack, the ones with a high proof we can’t taste under the overcurrent of sugar until it’s too late, and we’re tangled up in your sheets together.

That’s why she kicked you out to your dad’s house, why she hit you when you talked back. You were sweet, always too sweet, until she dug into you too deep and struck something sour.

[prettyboysdontcry]

more words about a boy!!!

the mortifying ordeal of being queer, etc.

J, 6/16

This week I kicked myself for thinking about you more than work, more than future plans, more than my own wellbeing.

This weekend my brain was only you.

My heart, my stomach, my hands and my throat, all full of your sweet laugh, your quirky earrings, your blue eyes, the trail of hair that leads down from your navel into your swim trunks. I’d never seen that hair before- you’ll never have any idea how hard it was not to stare at it.

You have moles on your back I didn’t know about. Your skinny shoulders and your pretty throat are so tan but your chest and back are so pale. I sat behind you on the paddleboard and stared at your bony spine, forced myself not to lean forward and kiss it.

You lay next to me last night and I gripped your shoulder for dear life. I fingered the collar of your blue linen shirt and you shivered and I touched the scruff on your cheek for a second time, this time on purpose. You didn’t kiss me. Your breath was hot on my face, just inches from my open mouth. I didn’t kiss you. We didn’t speak of it in the morning.

There was nothing to speak of.

There never is.

But I keep thinking of that scene in Perks of Being a Wallflower: Patrick’s boyfriend had to get drunk to love him. I’m sorry if I’m leading you on. You’re sorry if you’re leading me on. I tell my mother I’m not worried about it: we’re just having fun.

I want to run my hands through your new haircut. I want to taste your crooked teeth. Your mother likes me- I wish I didn’t know that she used to hit you when you talked back.

She said you didn’t used to be so sweet. I’m glad I didn’t know you or her then. Then this wouldn’t feel so sweet, so fleeting, so desperate. We’re not going to be together forever, I’ll probably never see you again after July.

We are perfect here.

Just for a chapter.

The chapter where we don’t kiss but we grip each other desperately, not sexually, under the covers when we’ve been drinking. We don’t touch in the daylight. We don’t speak of it. 

There’s nothing to speak of.

There never is.

[prettyboysdontcry]

more shit :)

a different poem about a different boy! this is less poetry and more prose. whatever!!!! maybe it is called "Daughter."

Every time I start to obsess over someone new, my daughter’s appearance shifts a bit. She doesn't exist yet, but she could look like you, as long as you're okay with calling her Eleanor.

She could have your big honey-colored nearsighted eyes, your bouncy curls (that you didn't discover until you grew your hair out in college--it's gotten longer even since I met you in January. Has it really only been six months? Already?).

She could have your skinny arms, your bony hands. I hope she would have your mind for literary analysis, your ear for music. I hope she would learn to emulate the way you tap the steering wheel and bounce your head when I play you a new song.

You would be a wonderful father, because you are a wonderful friend. I couldn't think of a better way to describe you than selfless, or thoughtful, or caring. You deserve a new synonym for these traits, just to prove to the thesaurus that you are something special. If I was a better writer I'd make one up. Every other word out of your pretty mouth is an offering, a validation, an “okay-just-making-sure.” If I accepted every time you offered your jacket, your closet would be empty. Your eyes are permanently wide with concern, always observing to see where you can be of help. Of course we met the way we did. You would care for a child so purposefully it would create a new meaning of the word.

She would have my copper freckles, and my wide feet, my tics and habits. Your nose and your music taste and your kindness. We would raise her on Joni Mitchell and day hikes and family dance parties. She would have all our love.

[prettyboysdontcry]

what if i post things that aren't corvid

this is a poem about a boy. ugh how basic. oh well. hope it isn't too obvious who it's about (as if literally anyone will see this...nvm)

I have six weeks left and I hate that you're the most constant thing in my brain right now.

I should be thinking of the kids, of the mountains, of the deer and the cat and my first friends and myself. Not of you, crooked teeth and bleached hair, refilling your water bottle at Dean’s kitchen sink and filling my sketchbook at work with drawings of your profile. Trying to portray how your eyes widen when you’re listening to someone.

I touched the scruff on your cheek for the first time two days ago, by accident. It was rougher than I expected.

I was so uncomfortable but your head was on my chest. How was I supposed to ask you to move? Like a cat, I was afraid to shoo you away, even gently, in case you didn't want to return to my lap.

I want to get drunk with you because that's the only time I'm not afraid to touch you. I don’t mean sex, or even your face- I don’t know how to do that, yet, with you.

Your shoulder when you make me laugh, your clothes when I think they’re pretty enough to take off, your back when you drop your head into your trembling hands.

The top of your head when I walk by, and you lean into my touch like a devoted dog.

In the car on the way home, you played Dance Hall Days. My mother asked me why I wasn't jumping at the chance to see you again after Colorado, since you'll just be a couple of hours away, and she knows I like you. I couldn't explain to her why that thought made me want to throw up. I can't explain it to myself. We’re different people here. We won’t translate well to real life.

[your-gay-grandma]

we all must get weirder and more queer. i am completely serious and genuine and this is urgent. please get weirder and gayer now. if you see me acting weird and gay mind your business a little bit.

[prettyboysdontcry]

this is it!!!!! LISTEN THIS IS IT!!!!!!!

[prettyboysdontcry]

Late December (flashback to late June)

As I stand there next to Corvid on the bridge, the dusk around us gently folding into night, I find myself reminded of the first time I saw them. Six months ago, almost to the day. Only later did I realize that I’d been marching at their side without ever really seeing them for hours, but the first time I looked in their eyes was right after they were filled with pepper spray.

It was only my third night protesting, and I was out there alone. The two nights before, I’d had Eddy with me, but he had a date that night. He’d told me not to go without a buddy, but I assured him I’d be okay. Besides, I reminded him, you’re never really alone at a protest. Everyone there is on your side, part of your community, fighting at your back. Eddy kissed my forehead and my eyelids and the left side of my jaw, so very close to my mouth, so very tenderly, and told me I’d better come home safe, and I tried to push down the sick, jealous feeling that came with every second date he went on, and the guilt that accompanied that feeling.

At the protest, a few hours in, we were standing outside of the newly erected chain-link fence at the aptly but unofficially renamed InJustice Center. I was starting to get sweaty and bored, that feeling that comes with protesting for far too long with no results, with being deprived of water for hours in the heat of an Oregon June night. I was starting to drift away from my surroundings, falling into the pleasant memory of the way Eddy’s face, stubbled with seven months of testosterone, scratched along mine when he kissed me, daydreaming about tilting my face so he might kiss my mouth instead.

All at once, with no warning, there were shouts and flashes, metallic clangs as grenades hit the hoods of parked cars, and I was shoved to the ground as the crowd around me pushed, some forward and some back, reacting to the cops finally bursting out of the building and into action. I heard paintball gunshots and the sinister hisses of flashbangs, and someone turned up the Childish Gambino song booming from their car radio, the bass thumping through my skull, making my eyes buzz in their sockets.

I hadn’t been expecting this tonight, here alone, later than I’d ever been. I didn’t have the experience that these people around me did, having been quarantined on suspicion of COVID for the past two weeks (false positive, turned out to be a fluke summer cold). I scrambled up and tried to run for cover in the park across the street, but tripped over an empty spray paint can on the sidewalk and went sprawling on the hot pavement. By this point, tear gas had been deployed, and I started to pull my respirator up from its resting spot on my chest, but one of the straps was caught on something under me, and I felt myself begin to panic. I spluttered and coughed in the growing cloud of gas, but couldn’t force my way back to my feet through the push of the crowd and my teary, stinging eyes. I placed a hand on the sidewalk to push myself up, and someone in heavy combat boots stomped hard on my exposed fingers. I yelped in pain, but they had already morphed back into the crowd.

Suddenly, graciously, I felt a pair of strong hands grip my shoulders from behind. I looked down to fingernails painted shimmery pink, and turned around to wide, dark eyes fixed on mine. The person shouted into my ear, “You okay!?” All I could do was shake my head in shock, rubbing my eyes in an attempt to clear them from gas and tears. I held up my mangled hand so my new acquaintance could see the damage. I couldn’t understand how this person could still see clearly without goggles, their eyes didn’t even look red. Understanding me without words, they reached for my good hand and pulled me up, half-carrying me to the cover of the trees at the park.

As we stumbled away from the action, I noticed that my savior was wearing blackbloc: black skinny jeans, black Doc Martens, a black beanie, a black hoodie with a red duct tape cross on the front, and a black Jansport bearing the same cross. Immediately, I relaxed into their touch. A medic had found me. A medic with the clearest, kindest eyes. A medic whose strong, pink-painted fingers took over the place in my mind that had been filled with Eddy’s stubble just moments ago. With dark, shiny hair that cascaded over their shoulders, gauged ears, and a long nose with a bump pronounced enough to see under their blue medical mask. By the time we got to the cover of the trees and had found a clear patch of ground, I had forgotten all about the pain in my eyes, throat, and fingers.

Once the gentle medic had treated me as best they could (pouring cold milk, then water, into my stinging eyes and mouth, stripping my gassed outer layers, washing and dressing my fingers), they just sat across from me, tucked into our quietish spot behind the park bathroom, holding my hands, and watching me. I had asked that they sit with me for a bit, and said that I might not go back out. They had told me that was a good idea, and agreed to sit and talk to keep me from panicking again.

They gave me a nervous once-over, then laughed breathlessly and said, in a mock-cheerful voice, “Hi, I’m Corvid, I use they/them and she/her pronouns, what’s your name?” tilting their head to the side like a curious puppy at the end of the sentence.

Their voice, I realized now that I had time to process it, wasn’t what I’d been expecting. It was rough and gravelly, yet also somehow sweet and melodic, deeply androgynous, and (I found, with a jolt of embarrassment that I hoped didn’t show on my face) very attractive. They sounded genuine, even mocking a meet-cute. I tried to laugh in response to their irony, but it came out as a dry, pepper-filled cough.

“I’m Fifty. I use he/him.”

We were silent for a moment, my face growing a bit hot, then I asked, “How the hell are you not wearing goggles out there? Or a respirator? It's my third time out here, so I don't know the rules, or the tips, but you seem so confident. How are you not in the same boat as me right now? And how did you become a medic?” The words just tumbled out of me, until I finally trailed off.

They were quiet for a moment, then, “I guess I've built up a tolerance. I’ve been out here every night since the first time. May 28th.”

My brain, panic-addled and exhausted, processed this answer slowly, then the realization hit that it was June 24th, meaning that Corvid had been out every night for almost a month. I let out a sharp breath. I blink in surprise as I feel a cool, calloused hand slide over my right shoulder and nestle into the buzzed hair at the nape of my neck. A soft gasp breaks from my winter-dry lips as my mind comes back to where my body still stands, leaned against the north railing of the Tilikum Crossing Bridge, the toes of my Doc Martens pressed to the cold beam, steel against steel. My bleary eyes focus with some difficulty on the orange city lights reflected on the surface of the dark, rippling water. My love moves their hand gently from the back of my neck to my shoulder again, hiking my scarf back up toward my cold cheeks. They murmur a question into my ear and I nod gratefully. Their hand shifts once more, floats down towards my own. Our numb fingers instinctually interlace upon their gentle impact and we turn as one, the orange lights now at our left, and stumble towards home, not saying a word, each of our minds lost in the haze of our own memories. We still don’t talk as, together, we board the 6 bus northbound towards home, letting the city speak our minds.

[prettyboysdontcry]

Mid July

It’s a Saturday in the heat of July. Portland is often called “The Rainy City,” but whoever coined that term must not have lived through a Portland summer. It’s only 1pm, and I’ve truly never sweated as much as I have today.

I’m sitting on what could be called a sandy beach– that is, if damp beige clumps, mostly formed from spilled hard cider and very small rocks, could be called “sand.” I made the classic mistake of not trying on this swimsuit at home before changing into it in the sticky backseat of Corvid’s 2004 Outback (with the windows fully down: the air conditioning has been fucked for two weeks now, of course), and realized, with a healthy combination of satisfaction and dismay, that eight months of testosterone shots have redistributed my body fat enough so that my bikini bottoms, already somewhat skimpy, are no longer remotely appropriate to wear to a family-friendly beach on a summer weekend.

So here I am, a beach towel draped halfheartedly over my pelvis, drunk off the sun and the Mike’s Harder in my hand and the willowy transfemme a few yards in front of me, up to their sharp hipbones in the stagnant, murky Willamette, bent over to examine something near their feet. I only snap out of my stupor when Corvid suddenly shoots straight up, a Cheshire-cat grin on their face, and wades toward me, triumphantly holding something in front of them that I can’t yet make out. Something in their strut reminds me of when Tuna Salad brings something horrible and half-dead from outside to drop at my feet, patiently awaiting glowing praise. I smile at the thought, thinking of how Corvid would react to what they would surely perceive as a compliment. They flick the messy, river-wet hair out of their eyes with one long pinky and crouch down, birdlike, at my side to share their treasure.

Corvid is asleep now, having tired themself out running back and forth across the shore and wading into the river to find me presents. I’m immensely charmed by the childlike wonder that inhabited them as soon as I offered the possibility of a river day: I'm sitting up beside their pale sleeping form, hugging my knees to my chest, and examining the row of a dozen or so small items they have brought back to show me. Four seashells, two beautiful flowers, three exceptionally interesting pebbles, a dog tag once belonging to one RuPaul Snarls, home address in Lake Oswego, a bright red pop tab, and a shard of a turquoise beer bottle, halfway to becoming sea glass. I find myself once again making a strange amount of sense out of the name Corvid chose for themself at age 14, my sweet scavenger.

[prettyboysdontcry]

Late June

I’m still standing in the doorway. Corvid hasn't technically invited me in, and I'm terrified of them doing so, as I've become painfully aware that the only furniture in the room I could plausibly sit on is the bed. Not that that's stopped them, sitting cross-legged on the floor, rummaging through a clear plastic bin of what appear to be fabric scraps. Crunchy electric guitar and whiny vocals are still leaking from the busted speakers of their iPhone 6, shoved into the back pocket of their jeans. It's not awkward yet, so I take this opportunity to take in my surroundings.

At first glance around Corvid’s bedroom, the namesake is obvious. The room is warm and dark, a perfect opposite of Claire’s, and it’s exactly how I would imagine the slightly more human version of a crow’s nest.

It's messy and cluttered, but in a comfortable way. Every shelf and corner is crammed with shiny, colorful treasures. There's fabric hung in every upper corner, draping down from the ceiling to meet the outstretched limbs of the dozens of potted plants. The bed, which takes up the majority of floor space, is just a thick mattress on the floor, a nest of soft-looking blankets and well-loved stuffed animals. I find myself admiring Corvid’s lack of shame about these sweet childhood comforts, as well as, with heat rising in my face, wondering how comfortable the bed really is.

My eyes continue their ascent, from the bed to a large curtained window, and still higher to several haunted-looking clown figurines, pots of trailing pothos and ivy, and a wealth of camera paraphernalia that sit on shelves which appear to be made from scavenged wooden planks. Based on our earlier conversation, an image of Corvid and Claire digging through a dumpster for the shelves and their occupants takes shape in my mind.

The ceiling and walls of the room are each painted a different color, but those colors are nearly invisible under overlapping art prints, photographs, band posters, and cardboard signs. A few words jump out at me from this collection of media: “Black Trans Lives Matter,” “I got it at ReRun,” “Car Seat Headrest: Teens of Denial,” “We The People Protect Each Other,” and, somewhat notably among the others, “Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers.” As I skim the walls, I realize it would take me hours to process every word on every piece of paper. I shake my head, making a mental note to talk to Corvid about each of these wildly varying interests later, and continue my scan of the room.

The closet from which Corvid retrieved the fabric scrap bin is wooden, claw-footed, and painted a sunset orange, chipped from what looks like years of abuse. On top of it are stacks and stacks of plastic bins and baskets just like the one they have in front of them now, each full of a million colors of fur and fabric, beads and string, paint markers and bottle caps and rolls of film. Shoes are piled by the door, on which are hanging a dozen or so jackets and hats, a bike helmet, a gas mask, and a pair of ski goggles. A garland of small disco balls, a string of multicolored paper cranes, and pink and orange twinkle lights are draped around the room. The rug is circular and colorful and threadbare. A lamp on a low bedside table casts a dim yellowish light over the room, making everything look soft and lived-in, warm and welcoming. Everything about the room feels exactly that. Exactly like Corvid themself. It’s immediately comfortable, somewhere that I know I never want to leave.

My musing is cut short as Corvid suddenly shifts their focus from the fabric bin back to me. They slip the long hair behind their ear with a pinky, reintroducing me to the mischievous shine in their dark eyes. They lift up a few scraps from the bin to show me.

“Here’s what I got. C’mere, get a look at your options.” Their voice jolts me back to reality, and, knowing that they’ll have to drag me back out kicking and screaming from this wondrous room, I accept the invitation into the crow's nest, settling beside them on the scratchy rug.