vicious (how many things?)
emails i can't send > short n' sweet
one year, ten thousand bad moments / my friends all hate you these days, but they stomach these stories about us anyway because death and dying makes a person grateful for anything they can get / i turn on sabrina carpenter in the shower and change the pronouns, singing the lyrics at the top of my lungs / i see you everywhere in this abode of mine / i’d describe it further but that pesky private investigator’s likely picking apart my words for any detail of my location he can get (have you gotten a boner from looking through my butchfag literature yet, detective?) / i look in the mirror and i wonder what you must see looking back / you have fifty different smiles and i recall every one, every crease of your brow / you like a certain type of woman — smart, but who neglects intuition / it was hard to be invested in my old life when facing death or detransitioning / i still picture the woman i could have been, though / she would’ve been better for you to experiment with / assimilation as cannibalization, you were real close to eating me alive / but i got away in the nick of time / the asexual bengali virgin on the verge of submitting to cisheteropatriarchal womanhood wouldn’t believe this is where we are / january read my euology, i knew by may i’d be someone else entirely / but i never thought it’d get this far / do you know if ma and baba have told people that i cut them off yet, do you think my escape was unjustified? / i can’t get your eyes out of my head / hearing the name that was never mine is nauseating, everyone sounds like you when they say it / that haughty little noise you made / it doesn’t feel good to be written about, i bet / but don’t worry, you already know that our secrets won’t die with me / that letter i wrote but will never post admitted how the digital confessionals at 3 a.m. from others you’ve discarded nearly sent me running back into your arms / you’re the worst kind of killer / i’d have let you impale me on your blade if it pleased you / someone told me they loved how this portfolio of mine was so personal, though non-fiction / so dig a little deeper, you’ll see all the warning signs buried in my work / half of me just can’t resist it / to be analyzed is to be seen, but you never quite saw me, did you?