consumption of the personal

Here is what I’ve done.
There is a ring. There is a sliced-out scream from forearm. There is a love letter. There are many love letters. There is a collection of bodies stained inside my underwear. There is a preference to live out loud on computer screen rather than in imagined silence of mind. There are sexual perversions hidden beneath bed. There is a collection of condoms in bathroom, bedroom, backpack, and back pockets of pants. There is a memorized poem about sofrito, chapstick and razorblades. There is a woman. There are many women. There is a man. There are disposed hairs growing inside knots. There is drug addiction. There is food addiction. There is sex addiction. There is an addiction to addiction. There is some gender stuff. There is an experimental approach to genitals and orgasms. There is a stolen memory, stuffed inside a sock drawer. There is an envelope of money. There is an unclassified stain. There are many stains. There is a revision of memories. There is a pile of notebooks. There are maps of directional patterns on tiny pieces of paper in pockets. There is a tambourine. There is a mix tape. There are many mix tapes. There is a passport. There is a phone number for a man that is no longer alive. There is a Fidgeon. There is an orchestra of padded bras, stockings, and false eyelashes identity. There is a purple vibrator. There is a history of mental illness. There is a pattern of lactose intolerance connected to lovers. There are lovers. There are many lovers. There is a soul mate. There is an un-mated soul. There is a remixed version of childhood. There is a pause. There is a hole. There are many holes. There is this life uprooted from poems and whispered assumptions and how about we workshop the time I lost my mind. Tell me I use too many semi-colons; tell me my imagery is too abstract and distracting; tell me I need to have a beginning middle and end…when I don’t even know how to exist chronologically?

have you seen my ghost?

I need to know how your night began. I want to know if the bottle of vodka sat half-empty in your pink-splattered bag or if you purchased it new several hours earlier.

I still had pizza on my breath: cornmeal crust, unconventional cheese choice of ricotta, some basil, and was that sausage or ground beef? I carried my guilt of $3.95 a slice coupled with anorexic wallet and pressure to make rent in a few weeks, when I noticed you.

You had been crying so hard that your nose was runny and how could none of those police officers offer you a tissue?

I’ve had nights like that, I wanted to whisper in your ear while simultaneously rubbing your back. Nights where I couldn’t remember the 26 letters creating the lyrics to the alphabet. Nights where I woke with fingerprints, not belonging to me, on my body. Nights where slurring replaced eloquence.

I wanted to yell at that police officer: Did you ask if you could look through her bag?

Who is your emergency contact? When was the last time you laughed so hard, you needed to change your underwear? When was the last time you were sober?

The last time I used, my drug of choice was given to me as payment for dog-sitting. I didn’t know it would be the last time and maybe it’s not, but it’s been five years.

A difference between alcoholism and drug addiction:
You can walk into a store and shelves are stocked with a variety of your addiction from Spain, Oregon, Canada, Brooklyn. You don’t need to use a fake name, meet in a dark alley, purchase through a secret handshake. Liquor stores are everywhere, kind of like Starbucks.

I notice pizza sauce on my finger and if I lick it am I being gluttonous or one step closer to catching whatever disease is invisible on my skin?

Life is risky.

It is Friday night and you lay like splattered paint against the sidewalk right off W. 4th Street. Before this, I was in a small room or attic with six other supportive queers in a writing group. Before this, you were_______________________…………..