creating self supporting structures in his decaying cells, even as we speak

I’ve got a boy here, unusual, he came in wearing oatmeal pants and a trademark belt. He protested quietly when I took them off, but he went to the bed I insisted he needed. Now he’s asleep, asleep for hours, actually, on and off while Dominique and I talked. I wonder what I’m doing with a boy here, thick hair on my pillow, listening to another person breathing. I’m not the sort to let them in, not like this, stripped down to nothing but a lack of pretensions. A wild sort of comfort has overcome me, like he belongs. It’s hard to explain but very simple. I would wear his ring. It’s conversation strung out over days, little pieces of hard hitting truth from the mouths of minor gods. Torment, agony, and memory. Nepanth is no muse. It’s nice to match someone so well, we both have our wounds, we’re both made of scars.

Actually, frighteningly enough, I’ve been asking “how much of us is made of self defense” because we understand so well. I’ve come to realize that I somehow managed to hide mine in plain view. It’s apparent but clear and see thru to those who get the joke. My shield is my honesty, my willingness to layer my skin with everything people hide inside. I colour and flavour it with a trick of wit, a cynical tongue sharp as smoke on the lungs. There exists the illusion that I’m difficult to touch because it’s already there. Simple plan, but effective. I think if I had been born a boy, I might have taken the path he did. Charm rather than loving tongue lashings. I’m female, I’m allowed to play with boundaries in a way he can’t. It’s the road I rather, the words I prefer to say. If the right people read this, I’ll be having some very interesting conversations in the upcoming days. Such a thing, here, what I am admitting, it’s almost scary, but they won’t see this. They’re not around in my spreading internet luxury play. I don’t know who is, though, so I may still.

This discovering there’s a person in my head is never easy.