poet. writer. imposter.
The third piece about the 80's HIV crisis. It's been weird writing about this stuff and has brought up some awful memories. I guess this can be seen as 'therapy' or 'exorcism,' then. This recounts the moment when my friend Jared returned home after diagnosis. In his mind, he had ceased being human and spent the next few days screaming, crying and destroying pretty much everything in the house. himanimalwail I try to be aunty comfort but he brings out the bells and the catholic blood and himanimalwail himanimalwail It’s all I can do to decipher the grunts from the cuts in his gut and the salt oceans that rain from his gopping muzzle as himanimalwail himanimalwail His canine shriek pulls the shag from the rise and the tread, wallpaper from the stud and plaster and nothing makes sense so himanimalwail himanimalwail when he runs out of breath and with soft gulps and glottal clacks he whispers about how he ran with the herd, how he ran when he heard the three letters and a crucifix that now defined him and himanimalwail himanimalwail Soft on my shoulder he sleeps for a while but in his dreams himanimalwail