like most stories this one had no blonde girl when it began.
this one came later:

well after Peter Pan was released on printing press and Blu-Ray,
well after Wendy paved the yellow road.
in the beginning there was no Goldilocks,
only a hungry fox.
but rhyme will spin into sick fantasy in an old man’s hands.

once upon a time
a fox searched for food in three bears’ house,
found a little,
and then wondered what it would be to sleep in a bed
made of dead geese instead of mushrooms.
curiosity did not kill the fox: it only made her sleepy.

but the bears killed the fox–scraped her feet and ate her spleen.
and the dead vixen skin kept their yogurt warm all winter.

It is hard to watch people struggle with jealousy.
Love means you have the same conversations over and over.
Love means you listen differently every time.
I’ve spent the last six years unlearning the ways my parents communicate.
I still have the same conversations with my mother everyday.
She asks me when I’m coming home and if I have a job.
Once a year my mother tells me she’s depressed.
Today I tried looking at everyone on the 6 train like they had a broken heart.
There is something so warlike and old about the people on the 6 train.
You can grow so old just waiting for wars to end.
You can die waiting for wars to end.

My friend who is trying to breakup calls me sometimes to come watch him cry so he can get out of bed.
My friend asks me to help figure out where the pain is coming from.
I point to a place and he says that’s right it was just hard to tell.
His heart breaks so loudly it ruptures mine.
Some love stories don’t end like anyone is right or wrong.
People can just walk away from each other with their now broken feet.
It is hard loving someone who doesn’t want to hold all of your bodies.
My friend will stay put until the breakup is real and bone-shattering.
I can’t say stop because I wouldn’t do different or haven’t tried.
Love is excessive to the point of survival.
I keep telling my friends I love them in an attempt to give the word love meaning.
Every love story is eventually a ghost story.
New York is full of walking dead.
I’m reading a gay book that feels like the words in my own mouth.
Loving other writers means I’m left both jealous and hungry.
Half my anxiety comes from doing things I love.
If you stopped eating love stories back to back you might remember you aren’t hungry.
Half my mouth is always someone else’s mouth.
I’m glad my old lover flew away and didn’t break my feet.
I keep making haunted houses out of people.
Sometimes there isn’t even time to make new language from one person to the next
so we say the same words behind their backs to their faces.
‘I love you’ sounds like ‘I stole this feeling somewhere’.
In just a year, certain parts of New York City have already become my ghost story.
Many of them are ordinary places like kitchens and street corners
where I am witnessing the slow making of ghosts.
When I keep my mouth open in the Village bats fly out.
I love this city and it has beaten my heart senseless.
I have been eaten alive here and so hungry.
Loss in New York City is commonplace and heavy, and sometimes it is unclear who is dying.
My heart only feels full here in the moments I am telling someone about all of its pieces.
Something ‘s in the air this summer stringing bombs and airplanes and hearts and money to a single line of gunpowder.
Every story I’m writing feels terrifying under the surface.
This time it’s not even beautiful.
Like we are just watching each other survive more, and it’s not even beautiful.

Who’s to say what the ends of life and death are?
They tell us sex is for
finding where things finish.
But you know:
a woman is never finished.

What if you never entered his body
but you jumped into his grave,
and it was there that 
you began a new life as someone’s dirt
and when the rain came
you began a new death as someone’s wings
and when the gossip came
you put life and death together like two and two.

After all:
can you remember the last time 
a woman told you she was still alive
and there was not some sadness in that?

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