And what about you?

Inside out, no, inward, no, downward, go deep, find the roots, I can’t do it anymore; “And what about you?” no one asks, because I’ve already told them. Where are the roots?

I wake to darkness but not pitch - I’ve found petty pride in knowing the difference. My cat is eager and I’m not, she wakes me and I slowly rise, she wants breakfast and I intermittent fast. I think of death, the redeye train of thought chugging on. It rocks me to sleep at night and its gentle chak chak and hümmmm remind me where I am in the morning. It seems I’ve turned inward - writing a blog, asking my friends and family for permission to die, committing to hormone replacement therapy, becoming quite abrasive and brutal to my friends, holding my cat in ways she tolerates but clearly dislikes.

I’ve lost the roots. Burrowing fanatically with my bare hands, throwing fresh soil here left and right and swiveling to dig in a new spot, throwing mud into the last hole I made, turning specks into film underneath my fingernails, swiveling again. And what about me? What could anyone ask about anyway?

Once when I was very very sick, my mom asked me why I care so much about the opinions of strangers and not at all about my family. Recently I’m sick again, and I’ve been wondering about it. Morality, art, intelligence, these things that I spend my worries on don’t matter in family life. Plus I’ve become vain in my transition, inspecting my face for changes in my skin’s timbre, while gaslighting my mom about its stagnation when she asks.

I have a kind of shame in writing this blog - What do I have to say? Ironic tirades on the futility of being a quirked up shawty, dialectical materialist treatment of genocide to reveal that it is indeed “sad” and “makes me feel bad”, instructions for drying lettuce; Worse of all I pretend to be prosaic; Actually the worst part is that I translate self loathing into impressionistic coffee table poetry and pretend it’s prosaic meditation.

“Yes, and what about you?” Is that what you asked when you subscribed? I’m unconvinced that you really enjoy me, and I’d like to make it your problem. Can you grant me permission to die?

Digging, digging, downward, go deep, go inside out. Pull the dirt out of the earth and put it on the outside and turn the earth inside out; I can’t do it anymore but the drive is still there; Find the roots and put them on the outside and put the leaves on the inside; Let the grubs burrow in the soil under my fingernails. Fresh soil.