December 1, 2022

I don’t get out of bed until 11am on a workday because I could die at any moment. It’s not fear driving me, it’s desire or sleep deprivation. Hard to know the difference between the two sometimes. I am always trying to explain “this is gonna sound sadder than it really is.” And this is probably no exception.

A firework, a car’s backfire, the electrical substation 10 blocks away shorts out when a tree hits it, plunging the neighborhood into darkness. I pause and hear an unrecognizable voice in my head, an urging that says people always think they’ll be able to identify a gunshot sound, but you never really can until.... you can. And somehow that undermines me.

How do I explain that I remember the sound of what a gun felt like pointed at me? I am trying to avoid seeming like I’m either trying to brag, or be coddled, or make shitty metaphor. But I’m not sure I know. The memory fills up my ears.

An ex says if they had it their way I’d stay at their place, the power is on. We’d rekindle things cinematically. We’d laugh. I appreciate the honesty. I go back to sleep.

I don’t feel afraid laying here because my bed would only really be considered a dramatic place to die, I guess, if I was a) caught with someone—en flagrante delicto!—in amorous congress, and b) the killer was TV-quality dramatic about making some sort of homophobic point.

Remember the time we realized we’d been fucking, both wearing the jerseys of our favorite respective teams? Or all the times I've laughed about that episode of Broad City wondering if I'm attracted to someone because we have the same haircut. I know. There are far more reasons to be annoyed with me or want to kill me than these, I think, and so homophobes are pretty far down my list.

I don’t lock my windows. Writing this makes me consider it seriously for the first time. I figure that anyone driven enough to shimmy up to the fourth floor has earned the spoils of my death. At least it’d be a good story! And that’d be a privilege.

I don’t get out of bed until 11am on a workday because I am busy with holiness. Nothing feels holier than voice lost, nothing feels holier than my friends dancing cumbia, nothing feels holier than the group chat where I copy and paste translations in order to follow along with jokes. And what could be holier than trying? What could be holier than always saying goodbye to everyone at a party?

Someone asked me if I’m afraid. If it's one of those make sure everyone knows you love them type of things? I’ve never considered. I cross myself with this, I eat the communion of it.

The person sitting next to me says they know I'm so in love with the sky, they're not gonna risk fucking it up by "making cheese out of it." They correct themself. “Uh. Make it cheesy.” The mistake is strange enough that I don’t even bother asking about it. Some things are so unbelievable there’s no reason to demand their truth. We kiss about it instead. They think they're getting away with something. I think I am too. I hardly think about death at all, which makes this only a semi-good date.

I don’t get out of bed until 11am on a workday because I never actually went to sleep. Nothing feels holier than the moon while it lasts. Nothing feels holier than blackness unspooling itself to light light light light light, always one more pinhole than you can account for. I learned that after long enough, we won’t be able to count on Polaris at all. By we, I mean the people who come from us, come after us. We'll have to make certain they know Vega is next in line. It’s an easier star to spot anyhow.

I don't get out of bed until 11am on a workday because I read the Big Dipper will lose its shape eventually. Its anatomy will flatten. How am I supposed to live in these conditions? Which brings me, somehow, back to death. What was ladle will one day become knife. God, the poems are writing themselves, huh?