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he called me a fag—close upto my earprolongedto make surei’d hearon the pulsingdance floorbreath hot—afterthinking i must beshittingbecause i’d saton the toiletand with thestall door betweenus i buttonedup my shirt scaredhe’d stillbe there wheni was donepissingand seemy scars and make someassumption althoughmen are ratheroblivious and probablyi could makeup a lie that wouldbe believed

i don’t know what my point is—that i was hatecrimedbecause he dislikedme personally and maybeonly called me a fag forsomething to say and didn’teven clock thefaggot necklacethat hungright betweenmy scars the ghostswhere my tits used to be

i don’t know what my point is—that this too is still, in a way,a good thing, to be called a fag—not just called but shoutedinto my ear FAG!—the way a manwould be because i ama man, that is, and so he wantedto fight me like one

and although i romanticize thebloody fists andscabbed knuckles i’ve neveractually had any andprobably never will andprobably always willromanticize them—i want youto hit me as hard as you can—and so i will continue toimagine what would've happenedif instead of hiding in the stall,faglike, i had faced him and told himto fuck off, manlike, or maybewhat i did was more manlyto not engagewith his bullshitthat i still don’t reallyunderstand—i don’t know

i don’t know what my point is