"THE PATRON SAINT OF NOT WRITING PEOPLE BACK AND FEELING BAD ABOUT IT"

a man told me i was gorgeous last night.
(some men like to say this before they hurt you a little -- sometimes also a lot, but last night it was just a little.)
he was sweet, and he kissed me. and then less sweet, and he hit me. and then scary, and he fucked me. and then i was blank, and i thanked him, and he finally came and went.
i have to wash the sheets. they still smell like him and it's been making me weak. did i really ever smell like that? like pie crust?
the rest: his hair was coarse and black and i liked having my hand in it, for surely fucked-up reasons. and he spoke spanish and asked if i like bogotá, and i said, yes, but it's complicated.
afterwards, i couldn't do my shot; i couldn't make myself into any more surfaces.

"THEY WON'T PLAY THAT HORN ON JUDGMENT DAY"

we moved apartments. i can walk to work some days now. i can walk to pick up medicine.
my therapist gets a kick out of me reading books with titles like "how to fuck like a girl" and "reverse cowgirl" in the waiting room.
m & i bought two matching desks -- i have a grainy purple-hued picture of an elementary school play masking-taped above mine: a mob of kids on stage in the old gym, chistrmas lights hanging at the top of the curtain, a large spotlight on the center; can't really make out whether or not that's me and my face.
one thing i like is the sound of

still walking around the quiet city
with the landowner cat
and the wasted light
and the garden laugh
and the

PHONE APPOINTMENT, 6/2:
1. DOCTOR'S NOTE FOR VAGINA
2. INCREASE PROGESTERONE (I DESERVE IT)
3. VOICE SHIT
4. MORE THERAPY PER WEEK -- INSURANCE?
5. PrEP
6.

cars loud we cross paths by the kill-taker punk
mistake
forgetting you were you and not some silent
love