Freddie Prinz Junior

Let me tell you a story that makes my heart
    beat with intention.
Okay, I lied. I don't even know
                     if my heart beats anymore.
I actually think that it's drowning  -
          in the sludge of shame. I know that it
longs, though and I know that it feels.

I hear the crackling of the fire
   and remember the time I almost burned
the house down - alone in it. An involuntary
  suicide.
               Irony in the face of all those bottles of
                   pills.

Relief.
My belly sits on my thighs.
          The monk, she told me to relax it.
                                                          Let it hang.
           Breathe in and
                                                        let it expand.
           Breathe out and
                                                       let it contract.

How does that
          make you feel?
                                   You fatphobic fuck!
See, that's funny
         because it's usually:           fat fuck.
There is power in turning the words around.
There is power in words.

I'd be lying if I said I wasn't somewhat fond
        of the pain. I mean, my joy was stolen from me
the day I pulled the Freddie Prinz Junior poster
                                                         out of my locker.

Smothered by vacuous righteousness.
                      And the false promise of belonging.