I cried vodka last night.

He fidgets when he talks

to me. Like he has a million

other things to do, and I

am just a check-mark on his list.

I stare into eyes.

When I speak I want you to know

that my heart is in your hands

and that this moment could mean something to us.

I guess that means the ball is in your court,

and for that I'm sorry.

She's thin.

She eats whatever she wants,

whenever she wants

because she can. It's a

genetic trait that gives her

an advantage over us- over me.

I'm fat,

and not because I don't deny

myself the unhealthy things.

I'm stoic in that sense.

It's because my body stores

interactions in the most unsightly

of fashions. Her rejection of me

hides my six-pack. My broken

heart is a double chin.

Hey's gay,

in the sense that he likes men.

He's laying unhappily on that bench

and I get the feeling that somehow

this is my fault, as if

I gave cause to his obsession.

I'm straight

and not because I'm not unhappy.

I spend my hours reconciling who I am

with who I want to be.

I have a feeling I'm missing something

and for that, I cried vodka last night.