I thought you were
alone. I thought all that talk about community
was for show. You know I text you with all my random bullshit worries
every time you post a new informal group photo,
right?
Because I'm worried that deep down,
no one actually loves me.
If everyone knew who I really was inside—
but nah. That's silly talk.
That moment will never arrive.
Not as long as I am delaying it;
not as long as I am betraying myself, and pretending that I am following your lead, Kevin Martens.
Not as long as I keep telling myself
I am not a little gay half-breed piece of shit
like you.
I like to feel superior
since I can "control my urges"
and pretend that I am more true
to what I think is natural.
To what I believe is habitual;
you can't possibly be
so good at what you do.
Nobody understands you;
nobody finds you coherent. I need an enormous amount of proof
that your image is in full view.
Surely you are not made of living, untouchable truth:
surely nobody else thinks the way you do.
How do you keep doing what you do, if no one supports you?
I have not yet learned
the difference between old school and new:
I have not yet discovered
that what I fear to acknowledge
is actually my own future,
my own reality,
my own inexperience
my own imperfect view
of who I am.
There is no meaning to it all, yes, that's true:
there is no meaning to anything at all
when your entire view of the universe
is solely premised on what, and who, is useful.
Sadly, I am not.
I am only a beautiful, magnificent trophy
that is absolutely yours
to lose.
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