[an erasure. click HERE to read full prose poem]
Real Talk for a Night & Always an Evolution
...I know I'm not even close to a *ping* on your radar, but when I come across you on FB/IG, my radar sounds and I can't help but think of you. I think about seeing you at X and the obligatory hello you gave with the not-so-subtle vibe that smelled of no-I'm-not-interested--not-even-in-conversation. And then I think of the day and the night of YZ's failure of a surprise—and how my anxiety grew roots all day and blossomed once all of the oxygen imploded—and how not you or any other person who helped plan the party was there for me while I spiraled in and out of hyperventilated sobs, closed behind my bedroom door while my home was full of people—and how not only did none of you check in on me let alone help, but instead talked shit behind my back while standing huddled around my kitchen sink. And how you especially hardcore failed me, when you should've been the one person who cared enough to place your palm on my back. Yes, I realize there was more, but not really. It was all my anxiety. And while you write and perform your knowledge of PTSD on stages and preach about the compassion needed to overcome, you offer/ed me none. But instead look past me with an insulting indifference when our paths align for a night. And whether social media thrusts you in my face or we meet IRL, it hurts despite time passing, cuz you still sexy as hell and I'm still full of heart and always an evolution.