Texts from friends: comparing contacts*


*maybs time to clean out the closet

adventures in internet dating, poetry

your hands on my face

my spirit is sick

holy fuck
I just want your hands on my face!
you who I do not know
you who I already know
you who I’ve always known
I just want your hands on my face!

I wake up
alls I can think about
purging this sickness out
hopelessly hoping
for your hands on my face

you who
I do not


I don’t have time to date

I don’t have time to date. I am already in a committed, monogamous relationship with my own body. I am too interested in myself to consume what you might have to say. Your feelings won’t matter to me, they won’t resonate. Your witty banter will be lost, drown out by my fascinating internal monologue.You say fixed gear, you say grad school, you say you dislike family guy too. You say I love your quasi-lesbian haircut, I love your eyes, your big mouth. I touch your tattoos, your arms. You say what are your kids names? I don’t hear you. I am too busy thinking about my lips my thighs my tits my eyes to respond. Instead I say I want to wear your shirt, I want to be inside it. Impenetrable armor this self-obsession; my stomach digests me whole one bone at a time.