testosterone / injection

I’ve been there,
clean, pale skin laid out
scars from another time
darkening pin-pricks of hair,
      scattered veins across my legs.
In images, it’s different,
strewn bandages, wrap up precautions
– a serious, vital act
I mightn’t come back from this.
Here, in magniscopic clarity
comfortable, familiar reality,
these startled white legs
wrinkled bright briefs
this bottle, stacked on
      Social Deviance and poetry
in red safe container.
I pick it up, glass rattles inside
unscrew lid, take out capsule
plastic-wrapped needles
20– 23–
      3mm syringe.
Incense colours my room,
and I’ll sleep here tonight
rain and tingling leg,
hard breaths through compact ribcage
(my chest is bound up tight).
Swab, cool alcohol on meek leg
draw back air in plunger
tip the liquid up
insert, press,
drink up thick oil medicine
needle off to the side, job done
another ready.
Alcohol circles, calm me again
another moment to suck in strength
silver lightning pointed at my thigh
hiss in air, deeper, deeper.
I bring it close
rear back, and breathe
press down, shot through warm flesh.
There’s a needle
plastic tube visible
sticking straight, sword from my leg,
and I’m okay again.
Nerves shake, rear up, and numb
easy, soothed like fluorescent light hum
still there, I pulse the plunger back
anticipation runs
      surge forward,
and there’s liquid in my muscles
thickness through my leg.
Fingers splay, tender,
pads cold, beading moisture
press on skin,
      pull the silver out.
A prick of blood, my own,
testosterone coalescing,
      in me, becoming mine.

Dawn [Message to Adam]

[Message to Adam]

I haven’t been good to anyone I care about, and I don’t even feel truly wanting of communication about this right now, but I wanted to let you know many things have been doing downhill in recent times – as in, the last 2-4 days. I’m needing time, at least another two weeks, to look back into the last few months and pick out what’s been going on. As well, I’ve decided to look more thoroughly into my personality and mentality, because the relationships I’ve started this semester (Lydia) have led me to believe it would be beneficial to gain feedback and assistance with social and relational aspects of myself. I don’t know where we’re at, you and I – by which I mean, I don’t know where I’m at personally, and am unable to envision and clarify the relationships I have before I deal with myself. Lydia has reached a point at which she needs feedback and evidence of my emotional investment in her, and given that I am mainly unavailable to give that currently, I fear our relationship may end; following this subtle realization, I’ve fallen into a place of numbed pain, assuming the reaction of this possible end. My last emotional action, following the excitements of Lydia, alone time, and time with extended family on various levels both negative and positive, has been to cut my skin in five places, with depth and breadth across my body. Again, this is to give you an overview of my state for the last while, though I feel unable to offer anything that may symbolize a relationship between us. I’m sorry – for what, I’m uncertain, but I offer this to the world affected by me, and very deeply for myself, comprehensively over the last four months.


Figments (reflection on the imagined future created in the past, brushed off by the actual present)

last year, I glanced her with tucked shirt, saluting, sauntering, cacophony sounds

yesterday, unbeknownst to
figments of the past
blurry mem’ry cold,
she lay
wound around me
lacing with me

first bright hazy hazy sighting
greeting, turning away,
startled, swallowing
the thought of her, down my throat

coming up now,
to the present, to the air
arms round ridges, body senses
written universe
sculpture scene
our lines, our body twined,
synesthetic entanglements
then forgotten
soothing, hair stirring passion
and gone

not each other
outside each other
without each other,
pressed to–
begging sighing warmth, folding blankets of –each other,
rising, pressing
clock tick heart,
minutes turning over

structures non-existent ’til I met her, that existed nonetheless

hands on handles, handles turned,
before they came to be,
before my knowing
with I, to need
to give them purpose

now here, now aching, now
witness to her vibrancy
brushing silt sand skin, my foil
colour definition
window eye frame
raveling, drawing me

aligning, drinking
drunk now

once realities
undone by reality
red wash thick paint
o’er clever made up fantasy
weaving unwoven diluted refigured

cloud choking, airless heights
blinking unreality, impossible, unfathomable
shrinking views, the breath of your name
mystic marrow madness

cacophony sounds



What I most simply want in a relationship is a friend.  I see it on a hierarchy of needs, a spectrum of social interaction, where connective friendship precedes intimacy, and the feeling of intimacy is more important than physicality.  I won’t feel fulfilled without people to talk, connect, spent easy time with in my life, before I’m concerned with romance, or even just touch.

Perhaps it is because there have been limits to my social contact, the relationships I do have are incredibly valuable.  What I’m afraid of is apathy.  Lack of feeling, of investment, of real connection.  Related to this, I don’t like the idea of dating; it seems to me like an experiment rather than [the basis of] a relationship.  Dating is drowned in expectation, but there aren’t necessarily connections between the two people, and it’s in such a setting that they don’t have to be part of each other’s lives at all.  I don’t want that.  I realize that this seems controlled, maybe too bound up, but physical or sexual connection isn’t important unless it has an emotional basis.  The good part is the feelings; everything else just represents those feelings, and brings them to life.  Romantic relationships have the same meaning as friendships, it’s just organized and manifests in a different way.

I’m aware that instant attraction can happen, can cloud every interaction when relating to the person, can catch you off guard in the middle of a conversation, can make it so that when you’re across from each other, you don’t know how to both look at them and talk to them because you forget your words and then you’re thinking of how not to make it awkward – meanwhile you think they would make a good friend if they weren’t so… like that.  Admittedly, she’s like that.  Admittedly, it’s confusing.  But to go back to the original point, what I find most pleasing about her is how we talk when we don’t talk about us.  We aren’t friends, right now, but it’s that possibility I… depend on.


met him on the backdrop to
seventh hell
wrung out
dripping musk
too cold, cold
small where boneflesh left him
he was
crawling out of body
shrinking wrinkled within
oyster shell cage
he was
naked, cloying
phenomenal urges
basking, he was
folded in crisp creases
left behind
fevernight elixir
he was
illucid dreaming
too cold, cold
sputter light white mind
he was
bruised senses
numbed down, numbed down
blackout desire

so no
I don’t regret


Pink-Yellow-Neongreen-White-Turquoise Abstract Painting (4)

On Monday night, dead night, Lydia defriended me.  On Thursday, I thought, and thought and thought about her.  As I walked home, I filled with a choking emptiness.  Every Thursday between 9 pm and 1 am, I’ll have to get over her again.  Something was there, defined as time for her and I together, and even in the short month it had been that way, it made a mark, like a painting on a wall that leaves eerie blankness when it’s taken down.  I realized I felt lonely, lonely for a specific occurrence, for a substance all her own.  And then I realized that I didn’t want her there – if she didn’t want to be there with me, I didn’t want to have her.  It – she – wouldn’t mean anything.  And then she called me, and said she might have been wrong about needing a break from me, and asked if she could come over.  And then I said yes. 

From Tuesday until today, I didn’t write.  That time was weightless, hollow.  When it was the present, happening live, it wasn’t (couldn’t have been) waiting – but now that there has been a shift, the flesh of this week seems outside of reality’s continuum, taking place in some other space in anticipation of the true timeline jumping in and continuing.  

How odd it is, to describe and qualify events as though they didn’t happen to you, didn’t hurt you and give you strange senses, made no mark on you.  There is evidence of how real it was, steps taken and processes to sort it out.  Cursive notes with half-hearted gravitas; weighted text messages-  

It’s the loss of opportunity rather than the loss of Lydia that grates… to know someone, to see and understand her life and her world, to broaden my own. To have a meaningful friendship is an opportunity in itself;


Attraction is a cool thing. It tells you nothing about a person, it means nothing at all. But it is a gateway, the maker of curiosity;

and letters, where letters meant for her are far off and disconnected and not hers to hold- 

they all want to say it’s strange and you’re – wrong, but maybe it’s just incomprehensible, a mechanism in your soul’s body that clicks-clicks-clicks, forgetting it should churn, if it even had a way how. 

if I start writing now, I may never stop; thoughts continue on, and where writing is concerned, sleep and sustenance and communication, where it is not fodder for wordspill, are aimless, get in the way.

when I dreamed of you, you were a feeling, a pink-yellow-neongreen-white-turquoise abstract painting, you drifted around me, I know your voice, you were there.

I wish I had been someone who… had less weight in my own soul, less to hold against the sky, less words, someone who could say “the world is a beautiful thing”, who could say “fuck you”, who could write “goddamn your face though” and be like “my stupid friend who wasn’t my stupid friend stopped being my stupid friend” and regret it all later and feel immature – but I’m not…

I’m trying to find something that says it isn’t okay and you can’t continue this way, but civility is accession and ignoring you is stubborn and watching you is desperate and wow, you’ve mapped your whole world in such a way that anyone who disagrees with your methods is wrong…

It happened, and it now stirs in a blind moment, feeling around for purchase. Today, it sounds like this-

I’m so happy right now.  It’s interesting, taking the same thoughts and feelings and currency in my mind of one person, and looking at how very different they are depending on what I have with and who I am to that person.  A simple switch – it took two days to get over her, but the Thursday feeling of needing her there, simply to do nothing with me – it was still there. Having her encroaching on the cloud of my mind was hurtful, poisonous, when there was nothing of her to look forward to.  Now I’m thinking of her; earlier today she was thinking of me.  The thought brings a smile, is noticed, and floats away.  I can live easy knowing that I’ll be spending time with her again soon.  It’s strange, that feeling; to be alright alone because you aren’t alone.  It wraps around, subconsciously stilling worry, quietly breathing and telling me nothing is wrong.


Comment today for today goes quickly

I’m drenched with a failing of resolve, realizing that what is creeping into my life now is no longer fun and no longer has the aura of simplicity.  Lydia runs parallel to my moods, it seems, in that when it was so lively and uninhibited with her, my life too had a charm and a meaningless simplicity.  While now, again, reason has come back to me.  Lydia and I made it to almost morning together, but we did so in calmness, based in a sense of reality that begins to question and give meaning to what goes on.  In my larger world, this means I’m beginning to look at the surroundings and experiences in my life, and my place in the world’s connective web.  What I am creating, becoming, moving towards and away from.  

I wonder who I am against the spirit of the universe; where Loki has gone, if there is a beating hollow of my inattention; what my soul looks like; what I really am.  In flagrante delicto.  Caught in the act of living, moving ahead, far behind, and with this exact shape, bound – by laws and paradigms – exactly like this.


And then I must write.  Writing is something that I am always doing, but more often aiming towards.  Something that I have to sort out constantly, inside my head, externally on my paper.  I don’t know, quite yet, what it does to me, or what I do to it.  Perhaps I haven’t looked; perhaps, emphatically, I need to.  

I appreciate intelligent critique, perhaps even more than positive comments, because they give me something to grow into.  The negative, a strong one, is that I often don’t know how to grow.  To continue.  I thrive on beginnings, beginnings alone.  Perhaps I shall try to make the middles into new beginnings, and the beginnings into central lines.  


In this new world touching my mind, there is a breathing solemnity. There is a loosening of energy and the fear of incapability. There is threatening, freezing, wide-eyed helpless pouting insecurity. The evermore knowledge and fear of my own my deathless worldly incompitence. Every time I reach into the social, adult, living world, I draw back – because every time I reach, I fumble, I do things that seem to take extreme effort to mess up so substantially on… I don’t understand the realm of common sense.




So many of the stories I’ve wanted to write have been about strange relationships, ones that didn’t develop in a traditional manner or were outside of normal society virtually in their entirety. People who, individually, were absent from the recognized world. Stalkers, incest, teacher/student friendship, a bedridden spy. A Greek god enraptured by a human, a victim calling back to their victimizer, a model fatally physically flawed, a child waiting for his mother’s touch, changelings, clones, the lost and unbinary.

I sought, and sought to write the “other”, uninhibited by their otherness. I don’t write about the strange; I don’t see those whom I write about as strange, as minority. I see them as people whose imagined lives and loves interest me, who can mentor me from the inside of my mind. They are the kind of people whom I think of as human, inhabiting the world. They are what makes sense to me, what kind of people seem to exist. By that, I don’t mean their actions, necessarily, but the truths in their hearts, their motivations, the precise way they feel about other humans and about their own humanity. The things that they doubt and are certain of. One thing they may all have in common is that they trust who they are, and they trust that what they feel is real, and they trust that what is real is what should be acted on. And so, it follows through.

I think it’s both in attempting to create “weird” people and in attempting to create “normal” people that I lose myself, becoming stranded from my interest and flow and love of writing. I’ve just seen: what I love about writing is making a world I want, one that gels with me. The world I want is filled with thinking, feeling, insightful, introspectively expressive people. That notion, and the ability to make it reality – that may be all I need. It may be all my writing is. It may be all I have.