i want to tell frank ocean to go fuck himself. there is no way that someone i don’t know can expres the things i feel the way that he does. i’m not a senseless self absorbed teenager. how can an artist speak this way? how can i play some of his songs on repeat until all i am is a mess? how is that a thing?
ladies and gentlequeers, i’m a fucking mess and channel orange is somehow the lens with which to view my spiral into hot messery. my heart aches the way pages feel when they’re dog eared and no one refers back to them. forgettable. usual. unremarkable. all words that say the same meaningless things. these are the sentiments of those that don’t create memories, those that don’t spark dendritic branches into being more than what they are, into creating networks. this is the voice of a 99 cent sparkler.
oh god, first, first i write in this blog when drowning is imminent. when my words choke my throat. when i’d rather sink peacefully into nothing, from whence i came, from before dark, from before insemination, from before i was a possibility. i want that place to be real. i want to visit it and instagram myself there as if i was having fun.
it’s dark now before the sun even has time to warm my skin. i get home, eat food cooked for me out of love and then sink into a basement apartment filled with memories of everyone i used to love. where did they go? how do people die while they’re still alive? how do people kill themselves in your life without a suicide note? how do they kill themselves while updating facebook statuses? why can’t i can’t join them?
i’m the most functional dead person i know. here, see that? i served you melodrama. i want you to eat it. tell me how it tastes. spew it back, serve it to me on an elmo spoon and sing me songs i used to know. i want to smoke a cigarette with Marni and remember what it’s like to have a chick for a brother.
but but before you think there’s some edge-less edge i’m dangling off of, let’s remember that i miss you most at christmastime is a song for a reason.
let’s talk about the fact that this is my second christmas without my bestfriend. let’s talk about the fact that it feels like my first. see i was numb when she first died. numb then dumped then deaf then paralyzed then i saw spring and pretended like i knew who i was and so i began a new life. now now now now.
now is new. now i feel things. i feel them without alcohol. i feel them without bags of white regret littering my floors and table tops. i feel them. i wish i was riese. i wish i was someone who knew how to feel things. do any of us know how to do that? christina, you shouldn’t be dead. like not at all. i’m scared to say these things cuz it’s been a year and to still be grieving you this way feels selfish. it feels like i’m name dropping. is that even a thing when it comes to death? i’m dropping your name everywhere. i’m a hype man of grief. i am the flavor fucking flav of missing you. so put a clock around my neck and turn time back to the day before you died and let me make a phone call so i can tell you that i love you and hear you laugh one more time. let’s do that and then let’s go on tour and find bitches in awe of us. then let’s high five cuz time is running out and none of us remember how i got here…
there isn’t enough bourbon to deal with the loss of you. i don’t have enough prayers to bring you back so: frank ocean. i don’t even know if you’d like him but he asks if i think that far ahead. he reminds me that i’ve been thinking about forever.
sometimes i feel like i can’t breathe but then i remember that my hands are wrapped around my throat to hold on to that scream i haven’t let out since you died and there i go name dropping again. i shoulda just loved you when you asked me to. i shoulda just been yours. i shoulda been more than a friend but here i go feeling sorry for myself. let’s get into that. maybe if i’m selfish with my feelings we can get somewhere or at least i can get some sleep.
you’d probably laugh about this but sometimes i write about what queers should do with love and with not-love. i write about honesty and when to cut ties. all things i learned from you cuz you were the master of meeting, loving and moving on. and maybe now i have people i like, maybe now i’m just dealing with me, maybe everyone else is extra but sometimes it’d be nice to call you up and talk to you about girls. girls. girls. i’d like to talk to you about the good girls you always knew i deserved to know but was to stupid to find. maybe i know a good girl and i’d like to ask you things. who do i ask about GIRLS? WHO???? who the fuck? no one knows anything. i don’t know anyone who knows anything noteworthy about women. if they know, they ain’t telling me and they’re not living it. not that you were a genius. not that you didn’t forgive bullshit but maybe you’d have something to say about the womenfolks i’m fucking with and you, you, you…i’d actually listen to you. so there’s no you. so who do i talk to about girls? can you come back for that? could we just make a deal with god? he owes me one.
kade/kate says crying is ok for a butch but would it need to be written about if it were truly ok? doesn’t it feel like a layer of awesome gets stripped away for every tear cried? maybe there’s a girl that gets it. maybe i want to tell you about her, maybe i want to know if she even exists.
mostly, i dive into strings. strings. mozart. strings. frank ocean. strings. kanye west. strings. vitamin quartet. strings. let me commit suicide into an ocean of violin viola villain strings, let them slice my worries into notes that reach heavens i never thought were real. let god hear my cries in F flat and send angels to pull symphonies together and save a drowning queer. maybe i can die in between strings like a sinner of love, like someone who used similes to represent everything they ever felt and choked on metaphors for having too many syllables. maybe Amadeus used too many notes, maybe I never finished that sentence. maybe it was too many notes for us and not enough notice.
but i’m ok, i’m always ok, as long as there are strings, good girls and slices of hot blueberry pie, i’ll be ok. sometimes you just have to let it out for it to matter. pink matter.