Hey y’all,
I know where shame sits in my body. It’s the back of my neck, an overwhelming blistering glow that stays with me as long as I keep feelings to myself. I learned to be very good at keeping most emotions to myself as a kid—it was okay to be funny, sure, but it wasn’t really okay to share how I really felt, why I was really sad, why I was crying, that I was crying.
That peachy throb became more familiar as I grew older. I could feel it radiate down my spine whenever I got into a fender bender. I could feel it heat up to the point of searing my skin when I thought about the interest growing on my student loan debt. I could feel it when my obsessive compulsive thoughts spiraled out of control, when I convinced myself that the police copters I’d see in the sky were actually monitoring me for the cigarette butt I had tossed into the street and if I just kept running another twenty, forty, eighty-five minutes I could evade them another day. (East Orlando will do a lot to you.)
And all the while, I kept this to myself because it felt patently absurd to say, “My emotions make me feel like I have a permanent day-drunk sunburn between my shoulder blades.” I now know this is, like, rather common—but it made me feel broken.
I realize a lot of this is tied to friendships and relationships and sex and sexuality. There’s some crossed wire in me that makes me feel—still—like if I can’t be everything to everyone then I’m an utter failure. It’s a miscue in my machinery that makes me worry I’m just a profound burden to my friends, that I’m actually quite unlovable and unlikeable. (Sure, this is the irony for all Leos. But still.)
I haven’t corralled shame yet. Of course I’m writing this with a menthol sting on the nape of my neck, like a haunting relative you wish would stay dead. I find jealousy and envy and regret pointless, and this son of a bitch still shows up. Is shame the shadow of love? I joke every year that I’m giving up shame for Lent. I call myself a sinvergüenza because that’s still the goal. I’ve got a whole lot of heart. I should use some of it for myself.
Anyway, here’s a couple poems. They’re about gay sex and other things that render me inarticulate. There’s also a couple stray hairs from another idea I’m working on. I’m calling them “conversational discards.”
Thanks for reading. Wash your ass. Kiss your friends.
Cheers,
KJ
(POEM TEXT)
about last monday
you look at me like a sleepwalking bear
asked to perform calculus:
“this thing right here?” you ask, gesturing
to the appliance behind us.
i stare back, equally annoyed. “uh-huh.
what else could i mean.”
your brows knit into your glasses. “but
what did you just call it.”
“the diSHWASHer?” “yeah, wait, what?”
“what? the diSHWASHer.”
“DISHwasher.” “Yeah, diSHWASHer.”
“DISHwasher.” “DiSHWASHer.”
you finally realized i’m not bright. “look,
i didn’t have one as a kid, okay?”
“right, but you sound german?” “okay,
let me try to do it normal: di
SHWASHer. diSHWASHer. FUCK. di—“
“it’s okay, believe me, i’m used to it.”
i recall this story later that night to a friend
after we both come twice.
“you’re a linguist,” i remind myself through
the vodka and beer. “is it weird?”
“yeah, it’s a little unusual,” he says while
packing weed into his pipe.
“it’s like you’re saying the schwa where
the actual schwa is—
like you’re underlining a point that
never needs to be underlined.”
he crawls back into bed and holds me
and as we sweat onto each other
i grip him tight and think about all
the sounds from that day:
the schwa schwa schwa schwa schwa
from my broken mouth,
the wash wash wash wash wash
you do to clean me up for others,
the sh sh sh sh sh that i whisper
as he and i hold our breath
wash up enough
i don’t panic about
coronavirus when
you’re inside me.
all i feel is your breath
on my neck, sweat
from your nose—
slight bright rings
around your eyes
i don’t worry about
pandemic as i come
inside your mouth,
both of us now spoiled
on blue pills, piss tests,
scout’s honor, the ridge
of my cock on your
tongue—
we’ll wash up enough
i don’t think about much
when i lay next to you,
breathless and tongue-
tied—what i get is how
your hair curls right
below your ears, how i
could spend the whole day
right there,
right here.
CONVERSATIONAL DISCARDS
I am a Leo sun / Pisces rising: I am a flaming dishwasher. You know what’s less stressful than either death-wish appliances or living through pandemics? Sharing my stuff. Go on: it takes less effort than throwing baking soda on a scorched Frigidaire and less time than the CDC-recommended twenty-second period for scrubbing your mitts. Thanks again. xoxo—kj
Every word is everything