Derrida is in a long black coat on our porch. He has not slept in five days. He leads me to the couch and when we sit he doesn’t speak. Derrida does not seem to like answering questions.
One morning I wake up and see Derrida in our bathroom. He will not move away from the mirror and is crying. I want to hold him, or wrap my legs around him—show him I love him somehow, but Derrida does not think love is sexual.
When Derrida breaks up with me he looks old and his skin is chalky and gray. His voice sounds like Ke$ha’s and is in fact her voice—“we are who we are” he whispers, embarrassed, and sick. I imagine peeling his skin away and climbing inside. I imagine Ke$ha and I curling up inside Derrida and pulling his gray skin over our us like a blanket, or a tent.
Sometimes I watch Derrida while he sits at his computer, hoping he will google something unacceptable or grotesque. Sometimes I watch Derrida’s computer and feel like I’m just getting it out of my system.
Derrida asks me if “love” is about loving someone or some thing and does not expect an answer. Sometimes wearing brown or black, he cries and cannot stop crying.
