Salt on a Wound.

Everyone always talks about the term salt on a wound as if though it is something you would do or see occurring often nowadays. Overtime I hear the statement I think about the ability of someone to physically grab salt, a tiny particle, and rub / seep / smother / sprinkle like the meme salt on top of an open wound.

Talking to you is this feeling. It is the feeling of knowing there is a gash in  my heart that you opened like the other people before me. As odd as it sounds, I’m glad. I’m glad because we aren’t wasting each other’s time anymore. I think you deserve to be happy; in your own way and on your own. Just as much as I think you deserve, I will promise myself two-times better.

Starting today I will appreciate the positive. Si, estamos loca, pero no estupida. If you even want to consider the thought of staying friends we are going to have to change our ways.

  1. I’m going to have to teach myself to accept the standards and limits that you have on our friendship – I will do this by not being a crazy ass heaux that is constantly messaging you, asking how your friends are, and ask what you’re doing constantly. Basically, let’s keep it at the level he presents.
  2. I’m going to learn how to love myself – I will do this with lots of masturbation, selfies, mirrors, painting my face, and putting myself first and foremost.
  3. Nobody is perfect – simple as that.
  4. 2018 will be your year – We will do this.
  5. Always we – never me.

 

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I feel her.

You are in me. 

You are near me, you are in me and you are around me.

You are me. 

You are me at three, you are me at five, you are me at six, you are me when I’m around a lot of dicks. 

My body is yours. From my curves, to my fingertips, to the very ends of every hair follicle on my body you are me. 

You are me from the past and an unknown future. You are the colliding of two dimensions crashing into a corporeal presence of being. 

I make you. I make you with our clammy hands, 10 brushes, 5 sponges, 3 wig caps, 15 Bobby pins and even the fucking fake eyelashes that glue together this notion of a “drag queen.” 

You are a queen. You’re a queen of a land inside of you unknown to the naked eye. You’re a queen from the white snowcap covered mountains to the deepest point in the ocean 20,000 leagues under the sea. 

I make you. I make you and I break you, I am you and you are me. Together there is a “we” that is not seen, not apparent yet so obvious. This “we” becomes a sort of dance in our body in which we are both leading and following, learning and unlearning, gasping for air at the thought of a day outside.

I make you like I make my perception of the earth around me grow. I grow as you grow, I weed the bad parts of my life as I quickly discover rot on other areas of my garden. I am a gardener, a tender and distributor of love, nutrients, sustenance and a hope at a life yet to be made. 

I feel you. I feel you inside my life the scratching of a cat wanting to be let inside, like the feeling of starting up your car in the morning when it’s really cold, like the feeling of being stuck in traffic and having to pee, and even like the feeling of accidentally prickling your thumb while putting buttons up. This is you. You are the feeling of a being inside of me, a feeling of a longing I’ve yet to master.

We are seekers. We are seekers of knowledge, love, lust and power. I think that you mindlessly scroll through dating apps hoping to find somebody that will change the perception of what this area is. You expect something different, better, bigger and almost better yet nothing is ahead. This uncertainty, this feeling of angst is shrouded by false interactions, false intentions, false profiles, false advertising and false abs. This feeling of uncertainty is the embodiment of hours of scrolling through an application in which you are interested in no one and yet still everyone. You are a kid in the candy store whining that there are no options when a single piece of Tootsie-Roll was handed to you in a silver plater. 

I say silver because you want gold. We want gold. I feel you like I see gold. I feel you in gold. Gold medals, gold earrings, gold plated 4 inch platform shoes with red trim, 24k gold flaked pizza, gold shimmer for a night out and even gold underwear. 

Here I am in the present tense only knowing what I’ve been taught and dissecting parts of me I’ve yet to realize. I call this present tense the self which is made from my last year,  my last week and my last night. I think of myself as a being coming to terms with this concept bigender. What is it, and, what am I? 

For now, I feel you.