Emily Austin

Before I even knew the word ‘gay,’ I knew I was gay.

I guess this is why Catholics teach that suicide is a sin. They were running out of priests.

“Are you fucking kidding me, Max? Look at your fucking pants! You wish my sister weren’t gay!”

I wonder if I will die looking at this ceiling.

“One day I am going to die,”

I glare at the truck as it passes me like it is a predator hunting me. I clench my steering wheel while I stew intensely with the reality that I am a living, breathing thing that is one day going to die. Reckless drivers can snuff me out. I am trapped inside this fragile body. I could be run off the road. I could be crushed by a van. I could choke on a grape. I could be allergic to bees; I am so impermanent that a measly bug could hop from a daisy to my arm, sting me, and I could be erased. Black. Nothing

I study the trees as I crawl past them. I do this to occupy my mind with thoughts that are not related to my own fragile mortality.

That is a pine tree.

A maple.

Another pine.

Spruce.

My death, and the death of everyone I love, is inevitable.

Pine again.

I am not sure if he was using the word “dear” as a term of endearment, like “sweetie” or “honey,” or if he was saying, “Oh dear” as in, “Oh no.”

too, and the cycle will repeat, and repeat, and repeat until the sun swallows the earth, there’s some sort of nuclear catastrophe, or—

It turns out the crackers I stole are the body of Christ. After eating more than half the bag, I googled the cracker brand and learned that I paired marble Cracker Barrel cheese with God’s transubstantiated body