Funeral Parlor

My room - thanks to the contribution of a gentlemen admirer, whose adoration is not extended to me, but rather, to one of the girls I live with - smells like a funeral parlor. And that assortment of blooms rests at the foot of my bed on her dresser top, as though they're a small offering of life at my viewing. (Aside: please cremate me. Flowers should not be associated with embalmed bodies in cushioned caskets.)

I remember the time when I had male devotees like her. It was during that era, not so long ago, that I was twenty five or thirty pounds lesser than what I am now.

I've always been a bit aloof to the opposite sex, cushioning myself in a bewildering nest of contradictions, a jarring set of values that somehow managed to entice.

Now, I'm lucky to have one, sole admirer. One boy who remained even after he was through examining all the twigs that form my roost, who even after stepping in the repulsive spit that holds it all together - my cruelty, depressiveness, ignorance, insecurities - wants to be a part of my aerie, doesn't mind being entrapped in a place of high altitude with a bird of prey.

That unflinching love, that undying insistence upon never flying away down south without me, upon always, without question, flying home, leaves me like an open-mouthed baby bird, completely stupefied, but crying out for more nourishment, tenderness.