Listen to me.
Maybe it won't get better. It might get worse. Or, you might stand up strong, or you could twist it the other way ‘round, make it something new. Perhaps paradise is drinking age at last in a gay bar: kiss their brows, love.

Seven, twelve, sixteen, fifty - it wasn’t the sex we thought of at the first, tab A, slot B, no tabs, too many, how the heck is that not painful - no. All we hope for, first, is love. Why would anyone love me? How?

Because, you know, you know, that, if you could, you’d take them out, spin them in, let me take these hair shirts off for a while, don’t fear, love.

There’s this wonderful new thing called a queer theorist. I don’t much care. Longer/shorter ring finger, psychology, deoxyribose and phosphate backbones, testosterone or oestrogen in the womb. I don’t much care. Call it queer theory, I liked it and you will too, but I call it one thing I found for myself in eyeliner, the slot of hips and press of hands, so seamless it should always be there like an epidermis. That’s how I call it, love.

Cardboard hearts filled in with scratchy marker. Science vs. Sentiment. Man or woman or maybe neither, it doesn’t translate so well into ventricles and aortas, plug it into Google and it’s hilarious- it’s only love, darling, just bent a bit, love. C’mon, sweetheart, here’s your lovesong. Sing it proud.