Writing

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Blue Suicide, Blunderbuss Magazine

The only two things I’ve ever recorded were for J. The first was of me singing “Blue Room” by Chet Baker—I listen to it now and can hear how in love with J. I was, how much I believed the words, and how much I wanted that blue room. I remember that his favorite part was in the middle, and how he loved that you can hear me click the keyboard to stop the recording at the end—he said it was the accidental proof that I made the recording on my computer in my old apartment on Page Street in San Francisco. He stayed there with me the night I met him. It was Halloween, he was visiting from New York, and was dressed as Bill Nye the Science Guy in a light blue lab coat and bow tie. I knew then, and I know now that J. would never give himself to me the way I had already given myself to him after only a few months; with the exuberant abandon of running down a hill and not controlling your arms, letting them flail around you. We walked around the streets of New York when I visited him in January, our faces glowing ruddy in the cold. (Red, like the stain on my favorite white shirt from the night we fought and I cried so hard that I got a bloody nose and he wouldn’t say “I love you” even though I screamed it at him).


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