The Liberace Museum, 1998
oil on canvas
by Dexter Dalwood
Packaged latex condoms with printed text
“Men don’t protect you anymore”
"glory hole" in lake berryessa, where at least one woman committed suicide by swimming inside in 1997
The was a hole in my jeans. I had to hand stitch them with that old familiar purple thread.
This is just so fucking hard. Shouldn’t I be pleased with the results? Maybe I need to balance the anxiety of the process with the sweet sounds that are being produced.
Balance like my new grinder with a ying and yang on the top.
The music sounds like gold. Like I am so proud to be able to put it out. Say that it was my idea, my words, my melodies, our song (his harmonies, his guitar, his tracks). Maybe I just don’t like using ‘our’ anymore. Now I’m just feeling bitter and sad. Like the way that that situation was handled is the way I’m forever destined to be in relationships.
It’s like I can sit here and think about you and all the silly things you did to me and just get so mad. But when I hear our chorus, and your harmonies, my heart just fucking caves. And your laugh and how you sometimes talk about the summer like it was the time of your life. And how I motivated you.
Let’s not get sidetracked. It’s hard to be with you. You’re seeing someone. I’m seeing someones. I love making music with you. As hard as I’m trying to forgive you, I’m having a very hard time. It’s hard to see you smile and stare in awkward silences. I can’t help feeling strung along. It’s hard to be with you. I still do like you though.