I’m twenty-seven. I’m in a bathroom stall at the local shopping centre, in the ladies’ room – of all the fucking ironic places. Don’t worry, my pants are on, this isn’t that kind of story. I’m just crying. I’m in the ladies’ room, in a bathroom stall, and I’m crying, and I’m typing frantically on my phone.
My best friend is on the other end.


Moving up along the lines of his ribcage, I hit the hem of the binder. It was biting into his skin, more so at the sides, and I thought nothing so soft and fragile should ever be bitten into like that. A confused impression of inadequacy came over me. Felix was graceful. He was refined. Those hands were a pianist’s hands. That skin deserved bedsheet and pillowcases. Real ones. Hundred percent cotton, organic or fair trade or some shit.

Just a little thing.

At this point, I’ve come out so many times it’s entirely possible I’ve overstayed my welcome. Surely there’s only so much introspection allowed before you slide into self-indulgence. Might be that you’re sick of me. Might be that I should keep myself to myself. After all, it’s not like you need to know every littleContinue reading “Just a little thing.”