In Loving Memory of my Bowl Cut

When I try to explain myself, I remember being a child, watching the hips of teenagers spilling over their pants on Rehoboth Beach, wanting them for myself and also for myself. To figure out which, I don’t know how: this was before I learned to hate this body and when I didn’t know it wouldn’t grow to be a man. The gentle hanging of fat from down the back of a thigh: it was ideal? Inhabiting myself is a dream in which I’m on and off lucid, committed and then quickly realizing this couldn’t be true, wouldn’t.

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