On the phone, Dawson tells you they’re fixing their truck. That it feels like they’re preparing a boat to set sail on. You’re quiet. You just want to be a hard to get they / them boy with strong hands.
Lately, you’ve been trying not to think of the hairs at the center of Dawson’s beauty spots. Their texts come late with no punctuation which drives you crazy. Crazy in a come touch my hurt, why don’t you?
One time Dawson said they like how you got things done. Not afraid to change or move.
One time you call Dawson and they’re coughing too much to say hello. They’ve used too much spicy mayo on their bánh mi. I made the chopping board from scratch and used my dad’s hunting knife to cut through the bread. Took me hours, felt good. They’re laughing like a child and it turns you on even if children do not turn you on.
In Montréal, you go to your first show in ages and hear Eliza Niemi sing: But come to think of it, I’ll admit that I love a sinking ship, so / Get me on there as it goes down so I can / Pretend not to care, while you pretend to want me around.
You’ve fancied sinking ships since day one because your dad is a sinking ship meaning he didn’t express love in a way that felt steady and good. You think to email Eliza to compare notes. To be a sinking ship sort of lover, there’s gotta be that laughing look in the eye, right? Like not much matters, yet here we are balancing on this wave of chemistry and ambiguity and —
You write Dawson a note when you leave Portland. That you’ll miss their hands building and touching in the way they know how. Dawson doesn’t write back. Probably taking their time with their boat truck.
It’s tempting to reduce someone to an image. To a single static thing. For a long time when you think of Dawson you imagine them chilly in their dad’s workshop. Splinters in Mainer hands to distract from sadness. But then you’re back in Portland for a sec and Dawson tells you they still want you in their life but one of their lovers is monogamous and it doesn’t quite make sense to prioritize you over the other lover since you’re far. It makes sense and it hurts and mostly you go oh.
Oh so the ship was never sinking. It was in the port this whole time and you didn’t hear the ship horn because Eliza was too loud in your ears.
Written at the end of November 2022, shared with Dawson’s permission. I turned 24 this week and (finally !) made this zine happen. I’m really happy you’re reading it.
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zo zine is a collection of my soft, goofy and confused parts. An incentive to keep writing. To keep track of the changes. Ft. polyamory, boats, homes, rest and all the rest. A peek into what it’s like to be a freshly 24 year old French-Australian they / them in Montréal. You can find the docs I make here.
Reading this on a train (not a ship.) First stop Valhalla! With Viking love and 💪🏻, xoxoxo
IT WAS IN THE PORT THIS WHOLE TIME 🥲