For J, with love

Go back, go back. Go over it. Brotherboi. Try to remember. The “you” of now is not an academic revelation. It is the “you” of always.

Someone once told you to put your shirt on during t-ball, to cover what you could not see and did not yet understand would be inescapable. Prepped for and peppered with, the shame of all good little girls. Their truth, not yours. Never yours.

Cross those legs, put on that dress, brush out that hair, sit up, stop chewing on your nails, eat slower… and later… don’t put out, you better put out, I don’t know why you like your hair so short, stop eating, put on some damn make-up, wear something tighter.

I was 237 miles south of you; we were strangers, and they were telling me the same thing.

We sit at the bar over a pile of fries, two little fag girls who are never going back home. Brother, what are we going to do? Are we stuck? Too weird-looking to find jobs that pay enough to fund our irresponsible habits- drinking, eating, getting sick, paying rent? Too stupid not to fall in love? Too stubborn not to fall out of it?

Go back, go back. Go over it. Dear, brotherboi. This is not the “us” of the future. Look here. Right next to us. That old dyke, getting us drunk because she needs the company- she fell in love, her partner died, and she lived to laugh at the straight girl in the corner who just refused us.

Something in you feels aged, too; I know.

Few can see it, but you have to trust that drunken Monday feeling- the fagirls are winning.

Remember, remember. Go back, go back. Go over it. All they tried to snuff in you, all you yourself would have assassinated, became you and lived to laugh at the straight girl in the corner who just refused us.

Go back, go back. Go over it. I’ll be on the bar stool next to yours.

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