I prefer to smoke on the dim-lit courtyard, with its purple eye, than nailing Christ. I do not consider its existence, yet they pray for me in his name. He's just a name on a doorstep.

Your lips were melty with the rash hair of your beard when we kissed.
I loved not knowing what it meant. I'd love to know, still. To see the birds perched on a rail pole ; your body too big against mine even though you're lighter than me (we both grew back : him on the belly and me on the breasts). Too full of clothes. There was a connection, deeper, needed. I can't go back and ask « are we something that exists, this time, after I nearly passed away? » So we let the night separate our bodies.

I don't know why we bring food to the sick. We usually can eat perfectly fine. But then a hope. Hope that this food brought will help the process, all of them. Because it is infused with our love, our desire to see you better. Also, the food here is shite, so take some better.

My queer friends bring nothing or poetry. Lavander. Reassurance that we are strong as a community, together, to survive. We are here, hold on. We love you. You saw the stars in our eyes. We remember when you chose your name. We had sex with you (and probably someone else at the same time). We cheered when you first went out of the closet. With us. Guardians. Followers. Lovers.

And yet, I fear so much having a relationship with a trans person.
The frailty of the body. Our labyrinthian traumas. My inner fear that I or this person or a relative to this person will die. By its hands or not. And the insurmountable grief.
A grief I felt and still sometimes feel I can impose on my loved ones.
Oh the grief. So blue, with jaws. Grief is the meanest shark, the oppositeof Blåhaj, the protector.
We get used to its bite one injection at a time. Legal or semi legal.
Our bodies full of bites. We survived, we'll survive again.

Tonight, I'll be free or one of my treatments, for the first time in more than a year. Probably no side-effect. I'm trans. I'm used to small, small doses, microdoses, doses given with a disapproving look, given with misgendering, not given because we're not statistically significant. One can cut the production if we don't make enough money.
Exhale. Inhale.
You're not only data.
You're not only a sum of molecules.

You're a part of the crowd, of the cries for more. The shouts for flames. The songs for peace. The chants for change.

They could not cut my pill on the last day, as they prevented me from cutting myself. We shared a certain wholeness. I am one with the pill, or not at all.

Tomorrow, I'll go away. Unsuck my way from here. I'll miss the courtyard and its purple eye. Its deep tranquillity. Otherworldly. A lake inside inside a lake inside a lake. The air felt purer. The horrors of being sick just a little bit farther away. I'll miss the oasis of gazes not really expecting you to talk but telling you to (except maybe the lady with her headset on).
This felt like the safest place, with windows showing on it from everywhere. A place I could sit on a piece of wall and breathe and see people smoke, their faces flashed by orange light from time to time.
I would happily have sung or played the bass in the courtyard. Not in my bedroom.
Barely a place. Mostly functional. No intimacy beside the lock. Not a place to live but to stay until a depart. As soon as possible.
I'm leaving tomorrow.