I take the pills and go numb.
I drift across the day room and settle on a couch in front of the
Lucy and Ricky slug it out in the gender wars of the 1950’s.
“I juss wan’ choo to be ma wife, Loosy.” Ricky croons; and so she
is, with all the weaponized femininity she can muster.
My doctor arrives.
He’s an arrogant middle class macho who tells me I define
myself by pain; that I just lost two friends to a virus killing
everyone I know is incidental.
No one in his world is grieving the death of fags.
In his world, fags are cautionary tales on the evening news: this is
what happens to perverts.
“You moof from walla pain to walla pain,” he says, with a vaguely
I want to shove my fist through his skull, but I widen my eyes and
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