She thanks me
for something insightful
that I said to her on Saturday,
and I know that we’re sparking
off of each other.
It’s mutual.
It’s not one sided
or selfish.
“Tell me you,” she says,
and I like that she skipped the word “about”.
“What do you want to know? I’m an open book.”
I tell her.
“What do you love?”,
She asks me this when most people ask: “What do you do?”
I’m surprised and without having to think I tell her what I know:
“I love Aaron.”
I say this
because that’s the truth,
but it’s not the whole truth;
it saves me from thinking
about how closed off I am…
But the way we speak
it’s impossible to leave it at that
and the question lingers.
“Why do you love Aaron?”
I tell her about what I was when I met Aaron,
which is also true, but not the whole truth,
and then we’re out of time.
On the train I’m compelled to answer again;
to answer more completely.
What do you love?
Joy. Creation. Inspiration. Poetry. Sex. Love. Honesty. Connection. Conversation. Meditation. Self discovery. Therapy. Listening. Communication. The freedom that comes with sharing one’s pain. Being heard and acknowledged.
These answers are wholly true,
yet I can understand how I could respond
by naming Aaron,
because he successfully relates to all of these things,
and that’s why I truly love him.
Also,
with Aaron,
with the people I meet
and surround myself with,
I have this sense of breathing rarefied air.
It’s not just that they are successful…
It’s that they’re creative,
and creation inspires me in every aspect of my life.
That’s something I love that’s never been articulated.
The words flow out of me
and I know they are the right answer
to the question that surprised me.
I turn it around in my brain.
What do you fear?
Deception. Broken trust. Violence. Illness. Inaction. Failing. Missing something. Things I don’t understand or comprehend. Confusion. Weakness.
While writing this I’m attacked
on the Northbound A Train.
I’m nudged, hit,
my headphones are ripped off my head
and some guy calls me a “Fucking queen.”
I laugh at this though he hurt me.
I continue to type.
I’m filled with emotion and my hands are shaking
but if I stop I’m going to lose it:
Shock. Heartbeat. Spark. Eat? Jason or jason? Attack. Why the relation? “Fucking Queen.” Sorry, but not sorry. Not insulted.
The man gets off the train at 145 and part of me is in shock from the attack but I’m distracted by what I wrote:
Violence followed by thoughts of food.
Was that me?
Or was that the part of me
that remembers
the perpetually recurring loss of my innocence?
What does that mean?
I need to talk about this in therapy.
I was so afraid in those few minutes on the train.
I didn’t know what to do
but I think my laughter
may have saved me.
Laughter can do that.
I’m not sure if it’s better or worse
that what I wrote scared me far more
than the man who wanted to hurt me.
An unspoken question:
What do you want?
Clarity. Continuity. Understanding. Safety. Assurance. Support. Guidance. Answers. More questions. More time with Aaron. More time with friends.
And more conversations
like the ones that inspired this.
Written by Jason Wright
JULY 9, 2015
for Alexandra Silber
- Note: I suspect the punctuation in this is all wrong, but I’ve kept it to myself long enough.