I see stories that I don’t want to read. About shitty men like me, mostly. No one deserves abuse is what I’m tired of seeing. I know, I want to say. Your point is made.

Apologizing for a gender makes me scoff. It’s cute.

The future holds nothing close to what it once contained. That future that was emptied into the sea. In six months I’ll be somewhere I don’t know where. God’ll still be there, I think. No running from that guy. In sitting here—writing on a phone in a motel—I am closer to death than most other times. Jacob died from a fall off a cliff. Gary’s pop killed himself on easter. This IPA makes me want to vomit.

It takes eight months to get to 300 pounds of human. The fresh stretch marks zip in among the hair that falls and piles up along the seams. That much fat makes it so that my cock is only visible in the mirror and when it’s hard.

I carry someone with me in every sense.