You took her into your bedroom in your shit palmer square apartment to show her your wall
White wall, matte
At Crown on a Wednesday you got too drunk and told everyone about your wall in your shit palmer square apartment
Your walls were white so you had to tell her to look a little closer
Matte white walls, until you see the amorphous glossy patches in no order
Months went by. Your wall became more and more like an archive. A short history of ours, a collection more telling than instagram - a physical space in the material world marked by our daily routine.
I always told you why I have never owned white sheets. Aside from recurring nightmares and the sweat that they yield, “faggots have Sex in the Shitty”
Not to mention my history of dating boys who shower less than regularly
It’s true, when you’re gay, shit happens
We bought your white sheets at Ikea together, because that is your aesthetic, and within a few hours they were filthy
I bought you bleach from Cermak’s.
Him: “He can shoot five, or six feet!”
Once I read that the world record was eighteen
Her: “I always thought he was against pulling out, then he met you”
Needless to say, I FELT SO FUCKING SPECIAL.
I always do this.
You don’t even smoke.
Valentine’s Day is the anniversary of the night I quit taking all of my medications
We snorted the rest of my Xanax bottle
Neither of us remembers what happened but I woke up with a new cigarette burn on my leg.
I HAVEN’T HAD ANAL IN SIX MONTHS.
The fight was my fault
St. Patrick’s Day we ordered fried chicken from Parson’s after having a huge fight at a Pub in Lakeview. Why were we at a PUB in Lakeview? After devouring all but the bones we switched off on each other for an hour in a bed covered in spicy potato chips. We finished and passed out. We woke up covered in cayenne, cum, and chicken grease.
The fight was my fault
I bought you more bleach.
Your wall makes me feel warm
But you ignore my wall
You ignore my broken knuckle
When you tried to ice it
I told you fuck me instead
The odd patches on my skin from cigarettes put out to kill panic attacks
The hole in my wall that I made for you to show you how much I care
and the one in my pants.
I thought that he was really deep. For a creative writing major, he was really bad with words
Hot and quiet.
About the artist...
Max Henry Boudman spent four and a half years at the School of the Art Institute of Chicago as a “floater”. He never stuck to any specific department for very long. After completing all of his required credits and attending his allotted 15 free counseling sessions at the Wellness Center he is now stuck this way. He is unbalanced, half well, stuck in the middle of the tunnel with no light at the end and fully determined to make you feel the same way. His work is invested in examining masculine rage, working though trauma, voicing queer love, and building new queer landscapes and lineages.