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98 LOUISVILLE MAGAZINE 5.16 Don't pretend you don't know where the con- stant roaring in your ears comes from. He left a river in his shape. You can sink in it, fll with it, settle in silt with smooth stones. Or grab hold of the splintered lumber rushing down the current and sail into new water, as if tethered to the sun, your hands red with perpetual dusk. Or he's right here, his arms open wide. Te chainsaw in his hand: his love. And you: all the greenery around you he mistakes for brush. My faggot, my forest. You know a weapon when you see one. But you also know a key. You must saw down your contraption. Let sparks shower between the blade and the rusty rods that made your step just so. Break the metal hinges from your shoulders. Snip the wire from your lips. Rest away the rawness, though the itchiness will always remain. No, the scraps won't burn. Pile them up and toss a tarp over them. Let them brood. Love well the wounds you earned from breaking your self out of yourself; cup your bloody palms close around candlelight. Watch them clot and seal and scar. When they reopen — and they will reopen — lick them. Te taste of metal is worth remembering, the iron inside stronger to the tongue than all that steel heaped in the corner. Go ahead and batter your body into your likeness. Stain your hair with black or blue or green, or leave its color its color and stop to look at it in windows along the street. Pierce your nose or lip or whichever ear you want. Fill your holes with gold, silver, platinum, boys. Get a tattoo, perhaps a peony you'd give a boy if boys got fowers. Or simply marvel at your skin, a painting of one color with infnite variations. *** It will happen when it happens. You can plan and plan, but when the phone presses smooth against your ear, the food of soft static will melt your scripts down to pulp. Drop them, before they make a mess of your hands. She will say, Hello. You'll know then. Te past will come up, like it does, and with it, a path: She will tell you the girl you dated in high school got a great job in tech and you will fll with guilt. Guilt for your fngers inside that blue-eyed valedictorian, puppeting. She will ask what happened, and you will say, Well. If you can summon the word without the glitter: Hope. Hope it happens near a door you can close. Hope she knows what she's asking, if it helps. But if that feels like a trap, hope she waits, oblivious. Hope she says whatever you want her to say: I know. How did I never know? Don't be ridiculous. Don't be ridiculous, of course I love you. Now, stop pacing. You don't have to say gay, if it hurts. Use whatever loops of language you like. Weave a wicker basket of words to lie in, but leave the handle of; you are not hers to lift and rock. Do not say, What would you think if. Do not say, How do you feel about. Say, Well, you know, I mean. Say, It's just that, so, um. Say nothing for a moment, and start again. Take something out of your pocket — prefer- ably keys, but a pen, a driver's license, even a bit of lint you can pull apart will do. Channel the hope in your body into the totem in your hand. Hold it close, outside yourself. Say, I don't really like girls that way. If the door is there, open it. If not, naught. Twirl your keys, close your wallet, wrap lint around your little fnger. Whatever she says, start walking. You can never go back. HOW TO COME OUT TO YOUR MOTHER Continued from page 67 wuol.org