|June 2008 / Volume Eight / Issue Two|
We were talking on the phone once, about sleep.
Probably insomnia, actually. We started talking
about melatonin and you asked me what it was–
what kind of substance it was. "It's a hormone,"
I said. You immediately asked your boyfriend–
"Andrew, what is melatonin?"
I hear "a hormone" in a voice so fake and
self-aware it makes me want to puke.
Maybe it would never work between us.
Maybe you need your daddy's approval
more than anything. Maybe you need a
penis because it can better penetrate
your walls than words,
than all the "I love you"s I have ever given you,
and all the "I love you"s I still have left to give.
Maybe if I got a sex change. Maybe if I
were a robot. Maybe if I loved animals more
than I loved myself.
But maybe not.
I would tell you that that hurt my feelings,
but you told me once that I don't have feelings,
I just have ego.
I just passed the hill where we had our first kiss,
which we were paid for. Also, my jeans do smell
like Minnesota, like you said, if Minnesota smells
like wet hay.
In the stupid cold,
I sit here thinking about big company executives
that secretly want to be dominated and humiliated
and raped– my brother
is beside me eating coconut squares, and
my feet are being swallowed by the curb.
|RETURN TO JUNE 2008|