You forgot who you were. Winter 1986, born into a world where you would always be the odd man out. Do you remember holding hands with torpedoes? A fraction of living at a fraction of the cost. You will always be a part-timer.
Somewhere between Amen and Hallelujah there was a novel aching inside of you to get out. Trapped between the cum of two men who always pitted you against yourself. No one understands your art. You forgot to learn the art of fitting in. Clothes made for men worn by a boy with two left hands and a mouth full of crooked teeth.
A question of likeness between two amoeba spores. I am a candle burning for the act of valor. Age 19 age 20 age 21 age 22 age 23 age 24 age 25 age 26. One of these things is not like the other, but all of them are exactly the same. You let everyone get to you before you could get to yourself.
When you look in the mirror, who do you see looking back at you? A cliche phrase is my best description of myself. You’re a faggot fantastic. You’re a faggot. Fantastic. Sarcasm note dripping onto the page. How do you solve a problem like Jeremy Quintero?