Are you on the apps?

a poem about dating

An egg I loved at the Whitney because it felt very Me. (I forgot to write down the artist. I’ll update this once I find that info.)

I.

"No one's transgressive anymore,"

the artist whines.

"They all transgress the same way."

Leather trench coats and 80's haircuts, a hoodie and boots that remind me of an uncanny valley imitation of Appalachian holler folk

But, I sigh, they don't know the subtle flickering of Walmart fluorescents, the careful aroma of cigarette smoke and southern grandpa smell

I reason that perhaps the key is to inconsistently both transgress and conform, always with complete earnestness, because the earnestness itself is the true transgression

Satirizing the self is a shield; crack wide open and become a vessel

I'll take a pair of retro Doc Martens and a latte with an extra shot, please

Yes, regular milk is fine, thank you

I am not like anyone else.

I am not unlike anyone else.

Thank God.

II.

I used to think if I sexualized myself first, I won

I was the wisest nineteen year old to ever live, the only being on this earth capable of understanding true nuance, fundamental complexity

Six years later, I was doing weekly EMDR therapy

These days I'm no longer angry or sad, no beating fists on cold pillows

I'm really very bored—

Bored of horny men

I want a sexuality that is made up of sunbeams and freshly dug-up bones

I want to eat hearts, kidneys, and livers with a man

A man who cooks, a man who tends to the soil with loving-kindness

I want mutually shared blood, dripping down our forearms, collected in matching pendant necklaces.

I want certainty—

I am an alcoholic.

Let's listen together, find the non-human in the art, the music, the words—the animal, the angel, the connection between

I want to be chthonic with you, celestial with you, earthly and elemental—heavy, swollen clouds thundering and mud streaked across our nakedness

I want to peer out from behind your ribcage: snug, reparented, physical eyes closed but third eye moonkissed

Give me your parched tongue, conduit pupils, incepted dreams

Fit your big hands around my waist! Let me be flesh! Let me be soul! Do you have any blood for me? Any bones? Any dirt or spit or melted candle wax?

III.

I type all of this, seal it with rosemary oil and irony and earnestness, of course.

I hit send.

The Hinge match replies: haha, nice

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