One Last Stop

You can try, she guesses. You can tear yourself apart and rebuild from scratch, bring yourself to every corner of the map, sew a new self from the scraps of a thousand other people and places. You can try to expand to fill a different shape. But at the end of the day, there’s a place at the foot of the bed where your shoes hit the floor, and it’s the same.

It’s always the same.

ou were always crying your eyes out to that Peter Gabriel song.

busboy brushes past with a tub of dishes and a mug topples from the pile.

Winfield squints at August, looking doubtful.

“That little twink contains multitudes,”

when she hears someone unsticking the front door from the jamb

wad of pink bubblegum

She floats into the room, graceful for someone with a blowtorch in one hand, and drops into the chair next to his.

for miles is leaning out of a doorway, a pair of goggles

To the queer reader, thank you for existing. So much of this story is about building a community. I’m so happy to be in community with you. Be defiant. Love yourself hard. Take the energy in these pages and get involved in your direct physical community. Take care of one another. Know that you are wanted and loved and awaited by millions of us.