told me he was just like me -
how i would like him:
function, beauty.
i was writing a screenplay, remember?
i thought of you on a stage
pretending that you were a black woman
who overcame adversity to go to college
or some Broseph explaining how he thinks he raped
his girlfriend
after the senior prom.
strange how nothing is a given anymore.
seven pages in and shit i have no clue:
you told me how Emerson became so needy
but wouldn't you be so too if your son died?
when you told me that you didn't think
that we could handle that pain.
i thought of how i would.
i thought of how i would want to be there -
even if you threw me out of the bathroom
i would still wait outside the door
then i would leave.
the screenplay is twelve pages in.
Emerson is done, for now.
we kiss goodnight with more than just our mouths -
this is beauty -
this is our beauty
do you wish that i
was the first?
can we pretend?
like my screenplay.
can we imagine?
like Emerson.
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