Undecided Basket Case

Something happened today. And last night. I’ve been craving problems to solve. There’s always been an ego attached to things I used to be able to do. A refusal to start further back lest I insult what I once knew. I picked up a ninth grade math textbook book. And felt joy in learning long division, which I’d forgotten. The long division, but probably the joy too. I wrote something a few days prior. For the boy whose baby I would’ve had.   For him: I was pregnant. I’m not anymore. I miscarried. I’m heartbroken. I don’t want anything from you besides a witness. This is me being selfish.  The festival sucked. I expressed boundaries consistently about only sleeping with you if you weren’t seeing anyone else. I know you were drunk. I know I was under the influence. I wanted to sleep with you. I was naive and thought you choosing that too meant you were honoring my boundaries. I felt so stupid and so exposed.  Then when we kept talking, I realised I never had an accurate grasp ...

  I feel sick today. I hate labels. But I know I’m demisexual. Every encounter that’s ever happened without love makes me want to puke and scrub my skin, like I’ve been violated by the oil of someone. And it’s this awful tangle in my head because sometimes I say I want it because I’m screaming to be normal. It’s so childish. Who cares. Let it go. And I cry and I cry and I cry.   You don’t have to.  He said that to me once.  You don’t have to.  Rape in a way feels cleaner, because it wasn’t my choice.  I don’t know if no longer caring for an imagined audience is a good or bad thing. I don’t know if I’ll survive the next bits. I want to bring such sweetness to another person. People have read to me before. I want to read to them, with a head in my lap and a hand in their hair. I want to climb trees and sit in a deluge, soaked in a summer rain. Like it’s not been said before. Like it hasn’t been done before. Fuck sex. It’s feral, and not in an all consuming an...