May 1, 2014.
Where are all the ghosts in Brooklyn? It is 2pm and I am drunk on wine, writing with a pen given to me by my partner. A beautiful man is sitting across from me on the L and I want to see him as a mirror, reflecting my face and tattoos back into my eyes. I want to see myself; I want to know how I have the same neck and eye sockets I had as a child.
I have dreams about snakes and human teeth found in the fossils of ferns and I think about my partner, a person whose loss of gender gives them the strength to grow fur.
How do we know ourselves without animals? Where does the tissue of dead minds rest between all the boroughs and brownstones? It is easier to find ghosts in grass and deer.
May 2, 2014
Life is alive in Bushwick -- I have skin, capillaries, oxygen, and ice cream.
May 3, 2014
I do not remember my dreams from last night, but I know I drunkenly moved through Manhattan, my laughter disgusting, fouling the air.
When I think of wanting I find novels, animals, and Matt's limbs braided with my bones.
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