paulina

paulina said he wanted to do it.
overdose? i asked, she said
yeah, he ran into it face-first he didn't
to do things slow, he lived his life to the fullest.
that's what paulina said.
she said she hated men. and then she drank
to will. she ran up the block.
i kept thinking maybe she was the one
who wanted it, wanted what will had,
drinking paper bag beers every night
to keep the faces of the men she blew for
ten bucks in the back alleyway from floating up
to haunt her periphery. this city has
sinews. they will make you into a ghost if you
keep caring. she said don't hold onto anything in this life. don't care.
i said yeah. she said people will break you down. i said it's easier said than
done. she shrugged her shoulders, sauntered down the street with the
cigarette between her lips. and the bruises that guy gave her are gone.
and the only thing left is her chalk-white skin under all of the makeup.
and i wonder why she never did it. i'm running into the light, she told me
tonight, i was born this way. and i know she wasn't lying
but i wonder if will was lying and i wonder
if it matters. and i think about how will used to call
paulina "it" when he found out she used to be charles.
and it is not about pimps and junkies and whores.
it is so much more complicated than that. and paulina
asks me who are you? and she's asked me that a couple
of times and i've never given her a straight answer.
i'm a ballerina. i'm lipstick stains on a matchbook. i'm dead.
and i don't know what she'd say if she knew that i'm just a shriveled-
up queer kid hungry for a bit of truth. that there is no exit. that maybe i wanted
it, too. not the hospital part but the part that came after.
when he was a legend. when he became graffiti on a stoop.
when it was finally over.