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  • Writer's pictureTweakUnique

Seth W

Let’s start from the beginning, A wonderful place to start. I met you by some rum and dice. And we were quickly set apart.

“You need to explain the rules better.” As I kept taking shots of rum. And I really tried to do it better as I got evermore drunk and dumb. I laughed at this scenario, nervously hilarious, all these new faces! You didn’t spare me though, thought I was nefarious. “Don’t laugh at me, that’s what you’re doing!” I felt helpless in a brew shop where only hate was brewing. You walked away, were we enemies that day?

Then, like a week later, I was invited to the Ceotto’s. I arrived late, and felt only full of “uh-ohs”. 40 minutes from Middletown, the place was empty, barren. Just some lonely clothing piles and a lazy dog held therein. I started to explore the forest, but didn’t get too far. A sign angrily stated, “halt, it’s a reservoir.” Which, of course, was where you were. You rampant rascals! Slowly trickling back as a park ranger explained that you were being assholes.

There you were, Seth, shirtless, scars across your chest. “Oh, hell,” I thought, “heart problems, such a fucking mess.” Here I landed again, unfamiliar faces, a brand new situation. Let’s gauge how the humor in this place is, and create a presentation. Did Karly feel any long term-scorn concerning sexism and sexes? Comments, heckles, viewing porn, did I leave lasting vexes? I assume straight dudes are defaulted misogynist, even though I’m the gentlest of feminists. See the nonsense in my mind? Just wait ’til I start toking. I put myself in CRAZY binds, especially when I start joking.

Any way, there we were, Seth, for some reason I chose to exhale fire breath. I got a gulp of 151 and spat it in a lighter. But the results were a dud, then only something slightly brighter. In the fire of your eyes, on that summer day, I also exhaled a sigh, because we made peace that day.

Then, surprise! You were on a bus bound to a quarry, “Okay listen, blah blah blah, pay attention to me, blah blah blah, this important for your safety…” And we headed over to the show. There was an arsenal of New Haveners whom I’d shortly get to know. We would grow stories as I got to know them well, and several would get poems that I would gladly tell.

The next time I saw you was in Scott’s backyard. Where you confronted me with a brand new issue, strange and surely hard. You mentioned a word that starts with the letter Q, somehow not okay for me to say but it was okay for you! You pushed my sexuality like an obvious law, “a straight dude shouldn’t say that,” How hypocritical! What a flaw! This wasn’t my territory, yet this was utter crap, arguing felt obligatory, I mean, Anya was in your lap! I backed away from such a flagrant issue, and deemed it dangerous to pursue.

Then in that same night you told me about being trans, we talked of your growing pains and adolescent plans. Our relationship changed forever, in clarity for the better.

As an aside, about these despicable words to utter. A poet needs vocabulary as his bread and butter. I respectfully refuse to say several words, but dislike appropriation. Slang evolves alongside all the misappropriation. There will always be words of malice and cruelty, in my opinion, owning them is dangerous and altogether fool-hardy. Of course, Seth, we’ve had this conversation. And agreeing to disagree shows relationship maturation.

We’re still back in time, summer of 2014, so I’ll keep busting rhymes about how our paths were crossing:

You invited me to potluck more and more often, we still disagreed on stuff, but my heart began to soften. On your birthday I expressed a poem of PRIDE! And in the audience of Pericles, you took it all in stride. On your birthday, I got to help in an ironic bake, a peach wielding fondant frosted lady-cake. You undoubtedly also picked up more about me… like certain innocence and ignorance of intimacy.

Then, during my contemplation to Scotland, “You can afford it, you’re young, and…” Here it comes, “You’re good looking.” What?! That’s something only my mother would say to try to push the depression away. And with those words, (remember vocabulary to a poet?) women’s interests became apparent, but I’d still manage to blow it. I understood abuse, especially emotionally. But, now, people were nice to me. It seemed such kindness couldn’t be real, I feared the endearment I started to feel. Those feelings became pathological. And I fell into something psychological.

For the first time I was angry with you, but I felt so toward everyone. Sleepless nights and stress felt through, nowhere to hide and nowhere to run. I needed you, thought you were the only one to help. But, even now I can’t understand why I felt that you betrayed me, delayed me, ignored me, abhorred me. Perspective is so important in the context of my loss. I can’t explain the crisis at the apex of my chaos. I expected so much from you, from everyone, and too much from myself, but my standards were unrealistic and taxing on my health.

I’m short of breath: writing now from then. I’ve said it Seth, I’m sorry, will it ever end? I sit here watching the crystal-clear story in my mind. I want to change it, but I can’t rewind. You know, in a way, I’m lucky to have felt such a range of emotion, and I shouldn’t have expected such (what? devotion?). It takes a lot to get me frustrated, remember your proclamation at nonsense of your one-way street? Have I now demonstrated I can trudge over losses and defeat?

Granted, this has been the more serious side of our affairs. So here I remind of question marks and ‘A’s in my chest hairs. And the time a queen heckled me on stage. Secret contemplations: putting a master lock in your earlobe’s gage. When we sprinted through the beach to cold murky surf, that little girl eyeing our balloon for all that she was worth.

There is “no oath, no spell, no prayer and no hell, but the one we made.” You were there for me when I laughed, fell, and felt afraid. I might be so bold to say, you’ve been on excellent friend to me, and I marvel that I thought you were my enemy.

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