You stand for everything. Yet, you call yourself a man. What other excuses do you still have? Inside I am thirteen. Still spinning water bottles on lunch tables, enamored with the future and sundresses, and the sway of her hips. Do you know what love is? I was raised by a suit-clad man who never explained what love is. Yet, I am filled with buckets of it— dark, warm, putrid liquids of it. On the treadmill, I run until my spit has little flecks of blood. I figured that I’d figure it out by now.