I take a trash bag into my bedroom and go through my clothes: too small, hole, out of fashion, too bold, too ratty. There’s a chunky white substance in the corner of the pillowcase, which I tell myself is laundry detergent (flashing back to middle school, Megan Lambert, tall and beautiful, laughing and turning red, saying that the stain on her cardigan was in fact laundry detergent, not semen, haha, what a joke. I tape a pillowcase over my mirror using packing tape from a time in my life when I needed it, when I moved and sent packages. I’m not distracted by these things anymore. A not too unattractive face, when seen in my memory or maybe from afar (though when I see it reflected in windows, the eyes seem exceptionally beady and the jaw stern). I look at my face in the bathroom mirror, sallow and grayish, my teeth browning in the cracks, a kind of a low gum line on the bottom incisors, a kind of chapped, painted look to the lips, actual countable pores on my forehead, divided by a real wrinkle that starts between my once lush and still-masculine brows and tapers out halfway to my scalp. Making some decisions today, no doubt about that! Not thinking about certain things today, no doubt about that! My chest clenches and my stomach bottoms out as if to say, ‘Are you sure?’ But I feel sure.
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