Everyone else rubbed UV protectant onto skin, flirted shoulders with oncoming traffic and the wind while he walked to Prospect Park with suicide note and kerosene, giving himself back to the earth. There are days I think about setting my scars on fire to see what new shape I might melt into. There are days I grow numb trying to understand how far down the trees' roots go or why letters in an alphabet like LGBTQ make people so angry. Just yesterday, I breathed in eight million skin cells and the secret messages of squirrels. Everyone seems to be on a diet of hate these days; I just want to get through a day where tongues tie us into love letters not tombstones.