This is not intended to be an erotic piece. At times my writing is a little more morbid than others. I wrote this during a free-write many years ago and keep coming back to this and tweaking it. There is something about this one that won’t let me walk away from it.
I used to cry. I would find a nice comfortable spot in a secluded space somewhere in the chaos. I would cry a good deep-from-the-inside-cry, letting go of all of the hurt and the pain and the horror of growing up in a family that was as welcoming as a Nazi rally to a Jewish fag. In the bathroom, in the morning while getting ready for school, I would look in the mirror and hate myself because I was different. And I would cry. Continue reading “Untitled 1994”