17 June 2018

on or about the 5th anniversary of my wedding

spending the weekend in my parents' house.
i almost pulled out the computer at 12:30 a.m. when i couldn't sleep,
thinking of you.
i want to pour a work-in-progress, stream-of-consciousness mess
into this text field
and let it simmer,
let it throw steam until it burns to the pan,
that kind of sticky damage that can never be undone,
no matter how you soak, how you scrub.

there is too much i could want to say.
the echo of my younger voice
is screaming against my realization that
more often than not,
my comment does not matter.
my voice is not necessary.

but sometimes it is.

sometimes it is,
and i have been shamed into silence
 by those who should know better.
by "advocates."
by "friends."

i tried to save her.
i am still trying to save her.
but how can you rescue
someone whose mind has been poisoned against you?
i remember that, too.

save roux.

save the one after, and the one after, and the one after me.

all i want
is to make the world a better place.
lock him up,
take the alcohol from his veins
and fix the serotonin in his brain,
and any of the other chemicals
whose pathways have been overgrown.
take the monster out of him.
he is just a human being...
isn't he?

in spite of it all, love.

i grapple with a question of "choice."
what does it mean to choose behavior?
when are we capable?
what does it mean when we act without capably choosing our behavior?
how long ago did it stop becoming a choice?
when one no longer knows the truth, one can't help lying.

love is big,
and much bigger than my misled affection.
my love needs to know,

How can I warn every woman, everywhere?
How can I tell them, Don't!
If You See This Man, Run.
Don't let him charm you.
regardless of gender, regardless of age,
he is still the same.

some people do not change.

04 March 2018

Labeling boxes, 2018

I'm getting ready for big change. That's scary. This is more like a series of changes, culminating in relocation and a completely new life and career path. It's not the farthest move I've ever made, but it is certainly among the most significant.

Packing up this apartment is going to be incredibly strange. I've lived here for three years now. That's the longest time I've ever lived in an apartment. This is the first place that was ever just mine, and I arrived here at such a critical moment. I feel like the entire time I've been here has been one huge purging process, and it's time to begin the final stage. There are pieces of my life I want to lose, pieces I want to destroy, and pieces I can't let go yet. Yesterday, I brought a trunkload to goodwill, and I can only hope that some young drag king loses his breath over Christopher Crash's very first pair of shitkicker boots. It stings to cull my keepsakes to What I Want to Carry Again.

There are different ground rules at every move. This time,
1. If it doesn't fit me, it will fit someone else.
2. I never want to see his handwriting again.
3. If I don't know why I have it, I don't need it.
4. "It once belonged to Peter" is no longer sufficient.

This time, I get to move twice instead of once. I can't stay in my apartment for as long as I need to be in town, so I'm moving in with my person for two months of the summer. I'm excited to live together, and I hope they find a job that will let them join me in my new place this fall. It's becoming less and less surprising to remember that our relationship is healthy. I want this supportive relationship in the next part of my life.

What can I live without for the summer? What can I live without? What do I need for a temporary place to feel like home? What will I need to find immediately once I get where I'm ultimately going?

Lists, calendars, and countdowns.

22 January 2018


Peter and I used to have conversations through music, and occasionally, we still do.

"Under Pressure" is playing on the turntable in my living room.
in my mind, i tell him, "i'm sorry i didn't get your record player."
in my mind, he answers, "you got out. that's all that matters."