remember when we were the same person
I should just make up a shitton of memories
and put in real ones somewhere
and see if you can guess
I’m not going to
I’m fucking lazy
I hate your guts
I should cut you open
take them out
stamp them flat
and hang dry them
feed them as jerky to some carnivorous animal
I could kill you
no one would notice the difference
Caz always wore bells. You could hear them coming way before you could see them, a small but sharp noise that cut through other people’s voices.
“I don’t understand why you don’t want to have sex. It’s not like what we’ve been doing already is very different.”
i just want to make out
and then suddenly you go for the dick
I don’t really understand that
there’s only so long you can moosh faces for
times call for action -__-
They liked to leave marks on me so that everyone knew I was private property. Little bruises and bite marks on my neck and arms and legs and soldiers. They were sometimes dark enough to last a couple weeks, turning from black to purple to yellow. My mother saw me coming out of the shower once, sat me down and asked who had been hitting me. I had to explain, looking down with hot cheeks, that they were just love bites.
Once they bit me too hard, and my skin broke. I didn’t want to go to the hospital, so instead I spent an hour flushing it with hydrogen peroxide over and over again. I wasn’t mad at them. They needed something to bite, and I was there.
“We’re measuring your dick.”
“We’re measuring your dick. People want to know.”
I remember the places we had sex much better than what actually happened there.
On the floor of a school bathroom. It says women on the door but it’s single use. The gray tile floor is cold and the tiling on the walls is tan and ugly. There is a mirror above the sink with the long neck, but it is too high for me to see anything. The back of my head is rested against the toilet and it is uncomfortable, my neck is bent a little wrong and moving bumps my head into the porcelain again and again. I have a class that meets in the next room over.
“I can’t believe we’re doing this”
I cover my eyes with my hands and I am not sure why. When I finally put my hands down Caz smirks. Everything looks dirty under the not quite bright yellow light bulb fixed in the ceiling.
This is the part of the lake where everyone swims but no one is supposed to. There’s the street, then a low black fence with signs that say though, then a gentle slope down then short concrete steps and a stub of a dock that leans against the fence in the winter until it is just another bump in the snow. There is a tree over the dock and right next to that, a tall wooden fence that marks the rest of the lake as someone else’s property. There are gray benches that are plastic, made out of spaced rectangles so they feel like wood, and at a bend in the road, there is one streetlamp. It looks old fashioned, black iron with sloped glass faces at the top. It can see us, even if there’s no one else around. It was such a nice night and I just wanted to sit on the bench and get bit by mosquitos for a while.
Hands pinned against the wall and my wrists are grinding into each other while they kiss me. The carpet is short and scratchy, the feeling of the ropes we had to climb in gym class when we were little, when we pulled long thin splinters out of our palms when we were done.
My body was under theirs and I wasn’t ready. My pants had gotten stuck when I tried to take them off, or maybe my hands got stuck. I tried to say wait, I tried to say I changed my mind but I felt my throat tighten and my cheek start to throb. I lay still, arms flat by my sides, eyes on the ceiling of my room. It was like someone had draped my body in a lead apron, like the doctors do before an x-ray.
I remember the ceiling best. White paint met blue-green at the corners. There was a small crack that sat directly above my head. I focused on the crack and let myself wonder what had happened there. Where had the fracture first begun? Had it grown from the right side or the left? Would the ceiling split in two one day, and leave the crack full of purple sky?
I stopped talking to my friends about sex pretty quickly. I told Devon what had happened and he got so excited, a pound on the back and over and over
“Good fucking shit, dude!”
“It’s soooo weird!”
“I just want to play with it.”
“Here, you can borrow this dress.”
Ill find you a trap thread
…how does do traps
not quite what i meant
i meant more like
how do traps do
what they do
how do boys do the pretty thing
…What do you mean?
…im not sure where
the fuck are the trap threads jesus christ
do you want to be a trap j*****n
…i dont think so
it seems too hard
Ca***** sent me this
“I don’t think anyone should tell him most traps are probably annoying attention whores.”
Was she talking about you?
What happens when two bodies that hate themselves find each other? What happens when two bodies that have never met another body meet each other, and neither really knows what it means that their robotics teacher wears skirts and long straight hair and an Adam’s apple, but they both know that they want to know what it is to be a body in between and here is another body and it has all the things I want and look, look it is ready to just give them all away?
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If I could buy you on etsy in a tiny glass bottle I would
They often asked me to take off my glasses when I was with them.
“Your eyes are so pretty.”
I would usually agree. The edges in the world would disappear, texture and depth replaced by flat regions of colors. I have trouble doing much without my glasses, things like doorknobs and faces and the ends of a bed slip away from me, and I have to spend a lot more time deciding where to put my feet. It was easier to sit still and let them look at me. It was easy to be pretty and still, pretty and quiet, lost in the indefinite world around me.
They loved marzipan, because it was beautiful and colorful and because it kept the shape they gave it when they squished it between their fingers.
I was always a thing when I was under them. We never talked while it was happening. Eventually I would stop moving, arms limp and eyes averted, eyes on the crack in the ceiling of my room, and they would continue, faster and harder, and sometimes when I would come back they would be done, and sometimes they wouldn’t.
“You’re not a virgin?” someone asked my first week in college.
“No,” I said.
“How was it?”
“It was ok.”
They looked at me for a while, head tilted slightly to the side.
“Are you sure you’re not gay?”