Ah teenage adolescent.
Don’t raise your voice. I understand. You want us to know.
The passengers on the bus are to bear witness to your phone call. It might be love and it’s happening to you. You feel like you’re in possession of a secret. We should want to listen to you.
But I don’t.
Your young heart causes you to falter and doubt words before they’ve left your lips. You accentuate pauses. There’s a lump in your throat stuffed full of lurid thoughts you can’t set free. You laugh uncontrollably and spastically despite your attempts to stifle yourself.
I know you might not care. But I’m embarrassed.
I know what it’s like.
Really I do.
To interrupt her like you did just now. Only to give yourself an excuse to say her name out loud; because her name is all you can say with conviction.
And I know you’re not really homophobic. That your attempt just now at some exertion of your masculinity is just because you’re frightened by how weak and helpless you feel under the weight of each breath she exhales into the telephone.
I know how it feels.
But it pains me to listen to you.
All you need is a couple more years locked up in isolation masturbating and contemplating suicide.
After that, you’ll be just fine.