i’ve got a knife some salt the coordinates of every scab scar your secrets stitched into the story you left the blank page open on your desk for 552 days so you asked me to write it for you instead don’t say i didn’t warn you about what happened with the one i loved before you i didn’t want you to run away afraid i couldn’t see your wounds without mine getting in the way but you insisted you were a Big Girl and smart enough to choose which truths to believe and strong enough not to leave if the truth did the thing it does best where it devastates you into a pile of red guts and dark feelings then renews your eyesight so you can see your life in a different mess that pains you worse than it did before
so i played analyst you the patient fresh off your one month vacation at the CAMH a few blocks away living in a rent free room at your mom’s on Niagara St. you invited me over for appointments in bed so after analysis we could have sex and do lines of k and listen to the CDs you stole from BMV that week
i asked the questions and you did the talking like you’d been waiting your whole life for your turn to play and cry and do a show and tell of the memories you collected and held inside for years suffocated into a pit of no expression fragments floating in a line waiting to be assembled into a coherent melody sung in your own words unlike the ones you found online to memorize and recite in a whisper in waiting rooms with hot stale air touching every part of your body yours hit like a gust of wind wild strong transparent startling you’d leave me cold with itchy burns all over my skin and i’d crawl back to you in band-aids with a red face asking for more curiosity became my violent kink
your blah blah blahs my blah blah blahs became wah wah wahs the moment you said you felt like i’d never reject you but i guess the white gold star lesbian won your imagined future the moment she refused to touch you until you Became a Woman whatever the fuck that means i think that makes you a chaser too except you hide it with your new name and style born from days spent scrolling through sites and forums and blogs and feeds and stories and reels of all the beautiful people with beautiful things you wished you could be instead of who you were then because rarely does anyone believe that they are lovable just as they are and that’s why people change and maybe that’s why i chase until i’ve emptied all the love i never received into her mouth and ears and butt and nose and screens like a gardener of a graveyard at the end of march watering the dry yellow grass picking up shriveled petals and broken glass scattered near the tombs waiting for you to become alive again i decided it would be too revealing to ask how does it feel having someone chase you for a change? though there was one time i stopped sending texts to wait for my inner storm to pass before i came back to see a string of bubbles in neurotic blue and a sentimental tribute to me on your instagram story the next time we met you were a cocky lil shit claimed you knew that it was an empty threat because you believed i liked you too much to leave forever i resent that she’s right my heart pumps with total devotion but my body drives itself on auto-fear the only modes i know are chasing and the walk away test who knows how to give or get it in any other way i think about the ABC equation below maybe i’ll find it in the imagined space before A or maybe C knows best
A is chasing B is chasing C is chasing something other than someone’s spoiled ass
my blah blah blahs became wah wah wahs the moment you held me down slapped me choked me asked me who i belonged to as i gasped for breath i wanted to ask if that question was meant for your Evil Lesbian Ex instead
my blah blah blahs became wah wah wahs when i told you that having necrophilic fantasies about her make perfect sense dead bodies are saints bc they don’t discriminate nor demand that you cross dress and shoot estrogen in order to be worthy of love and acceptance which imo is the real cure to those fucked up visions in your head not an OCD diagnoses and repentance ps. did she not get the memo? hrt wont solve a gold star’s problem with sucking dick you said nothing ok goodbye silence for weeks i withheld my likes muted your stories but i couldn’t stop wondering if you accepted or rejected my amateur analysis or how much ketamine it would take to make you forget what i said i got high for weeks horny for AG Cook, Finn from Glee and the bipolar boys on Degrassi whined about my Chaser Problems online and the sweetest tgirls try to save me from switching sides eventhough i know in the end the solution is always decide not to decide i ask my instagram followers to choose my next gender and sexuality adventure for me anyway and you’ll never guess which one they liked best i am a public freak show and a private autotheorist aka flexing my intuition to fabricate an elaborate narrative that explains why i believe i developed a genital preference but not a gender preference one being i’ve hated my vagina since i was a kid i’ve ignored it my entire life dysmorphia or dysphoria is the existential question you can make either of them true if your imagination and ego are both down with it like every other time i’ve reached this spiral’s end the solution is always the same i remember that i spend most days in bed where none of this shit even exists but collective consciousness manages to find a sneaky route back into my brain what a compulsive waste of time unless it’s just for laughs otherwise who fuckin cares even if getting a dick were painless and easy just like every other choice in life there are no guarantees for more happiness or success or love or sex the only guarantee would be the development of new and different insecurities no actually fundamentally they would be the same as they were before afraid when i’m alone with it and afraid when i’m naked next to another like every other trans person i am a brain and body with a very low tolerance for uncertainty and equally strong defences to resolve it for me the solution is always the same: decide not to decide
i checked in when it occurred to me that its not socially acceptable to post intimate and explicit thoughts about one’s relationships online without the consent of all parties mentioned my rule is never ask permission but always say sorry if/when the guilt kicks in ohhh here we go again fuck off with your cool intellectual frontin like you’ve got no feelings only critiques which was prolly projection bc with mine i’m playing hide and go seek only when i have more time i asked you to spit in my face and i lied when i said i could handle it because it’s part of My Practice mhmm okay sure im a Dumb Annoying Know It All (then why’d you ask me for fake analysis in the first place)
i asked if i could lurk your tweets about our sex and you said yes only 2 months later because i begged with enthusiasm and you didnt want me to scold you like your ex did
