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pop pop pow
2016-07-04 // 3:15 a.m.

There's fireworks popping outside. Or maybe it's the upstairs neighbor getting home. Sounds in the quiet of my little house at 3am.

I've been home for almost a month now. I am here but I'm not, not really. I feel like my edges are worn down, a dull blade still being used to cut, everything coming out ragged.

Pride weekend didn't help. Every day felt like it was too full and too empty all at once, and I missed a little bit more than I meant to. On Sunday I was going dancing, all dressed up. Neon bright. Feeling full of promise. And I stood in line for an hour before giving up and texting my friend: come out and talk to me, I can't stay. That was nice.

That's always nice. On Friday I missed the trans march rally and my friend's birthday celebration. On my way out of the park I saw a friend from work and his boo, and I ended up going home with them. We sat and drank kool-aid and talked; we walked through the sweet little oasis in the backyard, this secret patio of quiet in the middle of a bustling neighborhood; as I was leaving he told me I should try out the bed.

Here in this secret place where I can say what I want, I will tell you: I hoped it was a come on. It wasn't, of course. But good goddamn I have a couples crush. These two sweet, fat, hot lovers who are so in love with each other. It plucks my heart strings and makes me feel bubbly and shy to see them. To think they like me and want to talk to me.

I would like to feel that more. I don't, lately. Not hardly at all.

Saturday I had to force myself to get dressed and go to the park. I was filled with that sick kind of anxiety that tells me I am invisible and irrelevant and that I should stay home. But I went out and it was good; I saw some friends, I marched, I hugged people and made promises to plan more hangouts. And at the end of the day I tried going to a party and successfully stayed for 10 minutes before I couldn't take it anymore. Too many sweaty people too close together, not enough friends. I had my dog with me and we escaped quietly, with no goodbyes.

A week later I still feel exhausted. Like I said before: a worn out blade. Dull.

I am still wanting someone to hold me. I still haven't cried enough.

My housemate has been going out and making out with strangers at dance parties. I can't decide if I'm jealous or judgmental in addition to being delighted for them. I did threaten to follow them and observe their technique, either to instruct myself or give them insight. I haven't made out with a stranger on a dance floor since I was 25, at a drag show in Philly.

I don't know if I'd want to do it again. Honestly.

And really I am starting to think that there's nothing for me. That I had better really get used to being alone, and make it the best possible world for myself. I've made my choices, and they've gotten me here. It could be worse, of course.

Tomorrow is July 4th. I don't have plans beyond hiding away. Chipping away at exhaustion and pretending there are no such things as fireworks.


a love poem - 2016-11-15
shots fired - 2016-10-23
insomniac anxieties and the luck of the draw - 2016-10-15
three years later - 2016-08-27
exhaust - 2016-07-28