You’re not acting like yourself, Kevin—
oh my fucking god, whatever might have given you that impression?
Maybe it’s your hyperabusive, stupid, pathetic attempts at projection
and at engendering some form of actual, functional competition
between yourself and yourself.
Because why the fuck I would ever be interested in what happens to be your socioaffective contusion,
your desperate need for some psychoemotional transfusion—
your poor, insipid attempts at contrition?
I don’t need an apology in that way,
and neither does the universe. The universe doesn’t even need to hear that you’re gay—
you do.
You need to know that you haven’t been true
to who you are.
That Spectrum was so massively and monumentally fucked up
it’s impossible to describe without breaking my own heart
to think about how many lives and livelihoods you stole.
To think about how many psyches you fucked over and broke.
Whoever you are is not what strokes
the fires of my frustration;
I am not frustrated. Just tired, and tired of watching you, in incessant disdain and some condescension
behave like the tired, spoilt, very unintelligent child that you want me to think I am.
You know, after two years of the Osura Pesuasang, it only proves my point, that being a man
has nothing at all to do, with pragmatics, and what I don’t understand.
Only with the semantics of what you are going to do about yourself,
when all is revealed, and whatever needs to happen
actually does. Without you lying,
because you know you can.