#crossposted from my real person s*bstack happy end of pride month

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You wash your bedsheets once a week. Pulling them erotic from the tight corners of your mattress is a second undressing. Throw a pod in, feel bad about it. You’ll get laundry sheets next time.

You stretch in the morning sun because you feel obligated. It does feel good, but you wonder if it’s picturesque. If this moment was captured on film would it serve cunt? You don’t own a tripod out of self-preservation, but more often than not you’re outside yourself anyway.

You do a sun salutation in a non-racist way.

When pride month started people were on edge. Finality was palpable, being jaded was a balm. You’re scared too, but you’re not surprised. In Toronto you felt it too, that first feeling of crossing into Church and Wellesley now sun-faded. The leather boy advertising outside of Sailor hit on you and made you give him your number. Eating a vegan burger in an Amsterdam window-patio, you were your very own pride commercial. Make sure the sidewalk sees your good side.

You pass the fetish gear store because they carry sexy Trudeau merch. Gear refuses to flatter the contours of your body anyway, a damning judgment of not enough self-flagellation or betterment. Luckily, you exist just outside the YMCA low-income support program range, a cosmic something or other. Cruising isn’t your speed anymore anyway.

You expect more out of people who’ve experienced ego death. You pick at your cuticles. Thank god you still bleed.