John Doe

I’m dying. They have the oxygen mask over my face and pumping me with electricity. And it feels so good, the jerk. That pushing on my chest. That slapping my face cuz my eyes going crazy

I went to gay pride. Not the black gay pride but the white gay pride. And it’s the parade. I went with a drug friend. He handed me 8 cherries. I didn’t think so much of it. When went out to eat and was having a good time. I thought they were just cherries. So I ate them. Even if he was a drug friend and the person handing out the cherries was a drug dealer. So suddenly I started feeling good. It was the best fucking pride I’ve ever been in my life. So I kept eating cherries. Nobody told me there were drugs in them. I like drugs. I do them often. And I was feeling good. And everybody kept taking my picture. I was the fucking star of gay pride. I went walking in the streets. I was feeling so damn good. If it looks and feels so good, how could it ever hurt you?

And that’s when I saw him again. We keep seeing each other. He thinks I’m so mysterious. He says he can’t trust me cuz I won’t tell him my real name.

So I was walking home from gay pride for the bar. And everybody was telling me I was on something. And i kept saying that I was just drinking alcohol. Everybody kept telling me my eyes were wild. I only had a couple of martinis. So I started walking home. And then I couldn’t breath.

I like him, He’s cute. He’s tall, he looks like a person I could wake up in the morning and not be ashamed of my hard dick. He looks like he wouldn’t mind me watching jeopardy and jacking off. He wouldn’t punish me for being a Freak. I like him, he’s so debonair. And when I kiss his lips, he’s so giving with tongue don’t act like he’s kisses everybody. I like him. I know I could have fun with him, but he kept asking my name.

I told him so many names. Maybe I’m Chris. Maybe I’m Sean. Sometimes I’m Josh. Other times I’m Nathan. What’s so fucking important about a name? I’m reinvented, not born. I’m rebellious not nurtured. I think to myself could he understand. My name doesn’t’ get my dick hard. A named doesn’t get a dick hard. I could tell him Sean, but he knows that a lie. What if I actually told him? Would he care the story behind it? Or is my name something he needs to cling to like something falling off a cliff.

What can’t he understand I’ve been so disappointed? The name is the oldest magic. If I gave my name then I’m own by artificial. If I know I want him to get to know me, I don’t tell him my name. I see if he’s really interested. It ain’t the glory some dick sticking out to be sucked. It’s the decision of love. I can’t understand why he need to know my name unless he serious about who I am. Unless he wants to know the story. So I tell him Josh. the nest week I tell him Nathan. After that I tell Sean. I make him keep asking. I make him keep questioning, not that I’m a liar but somebody is behind the dick print and cute smile. I’m like, don’t kiss me and think you’re not paying half of the rent.


It’s how stories end, it’s how stories begin. Let me re-introduce myself. I first ask for forgiveness, because I no longer feel the need to pretend your fucking fantasy of the tooth fairy leaving a quarter under you slobbery’s pillow because you lost something that you vomited. I aint got no teeth no more. Somebody kicked my ass outside the bar and stomp out four of my front teeth and I ain’t got no insurance. So I aint dressing up in a hot ass Easter Bunny suit hiding eggs so that you think Jesus didn’t get his ass beat like a slave. And don’t get me started on Santa Claus and how poverty makes kids think materialism is happiness and their parents don’t love them because they on food stamps and couldn’t afford the Toys R us bullshit that told them to never grow up. Read it again. Read it again, bitch, read it again and slowly and understand the set up for failure.

You see I had to create this persona to survive because I wanted to be normal. I knew if I grew up to be the fuck up they predicted, I get to be normal. They would say I would always grow crazy like my mama. Shit, I was molested. I was raped. Mama got addicted to crack and abandoned. Grandma fed us from dog bowls. Daddy got himself killed. My uncle Fred liked kicking my ass. I knew I needed to create a persona that was unforgiving so they wouldn’t think I was a freak. If I forgave too quickly, they wouldn’t trust me. They treat me like Sadam Hussein. They would constantly accuse me of weapons of mass destruction. They want to take me to labs and opened me up and see how I ticked. So I had to create a person that was so damn wounded they would think it never healed. I knew they would understand knife wounds. I knew if I didn’t show some sign of inflictions, they would think I was a fucking freak. They would think I was normal.

You see, I kept healing. It was some weird shit. Everything that kept happening to me, I just heal like a fucking super hero. I never forgot my purpose. And I hated that about myself, having those fucking super hero powers. So like Superman, I created the weakest exampled of humanity I could think of, Clark Kent. I made him mild mannered. I made him the boy next door. I gave him glasses and clumsiness. I called him Carmichael.

But in my case, I created Sean. The black ghetto kid. I gave him a drug problem. I made him so hopeless that everyone who met him would think he was a waste of time. I then eventually gave him a drug problem. I lied to everyone about him. I never told anyone my real name. It was the only I could tell the story. It was the only way I could tell the story without being cold. They could pity Sean. They could think he was sexy. They could think they could save him. It gave them purpose. IT made them feel better about their fucking pathetic lives. I did them a service. Cuz otherwise they would’ve said why does he keep healing. They would wonder if my mother was on crack why I had such good English. I dated this guy once. I would always tell him I was from the ghetto but he would tell me that I was the prince of wealth. I would cry to him at night that my uncle Fred used to beat my ass and I got raped at five years old and he would tell me I grew up in a mansion and got a pony at five years old. So I lied. I created somebody predictable. I knew it would explain the story better.

The problem with alter-egos, they take on a life of their own.

So I created this persona I couldn’t’ no longer control. It was what I needed because growing up; my cousins would throw my books on the top of house. My grandmother’s punishment was taking away my library card and all my books and pencils. It was putting me in that room, face forward with no television and no creativity. So I had to create this persona, to make them think I was like them, that I wasn’t some damn cat with nine lives.
That I wasn’t some voodoo witch casting spells. I had to make them think that I died.
.

What I didn’t understand, the oldest Magic is a name. It’s how parents name their born. It’s how we grow to become the wounds of the original wound. Why name me Michael? When my name has always been Sean?

So I had to create a person to get free. I had to keep them distracted. Because I didn’t believe in their suburbs, baseball or apple pie. I knew politicians came to the ghetto to score crack and I was that drug dealer.


As I lay dying in that ambulance, I think if I tell him my name, does that mean I tell him my story. Does it mean he could love me? Am I setting myself up for disappointment? If I tell him my name, the oldest magic would he get scared. To give him my lips would’ve been easier. To give him my dick, my ass, my spit, or whatever would’ve been easier. But my name was the only thing I reserved. It was mine. It belonged to me. He could only have the illusion. Superman don’t go around telling everybody he’s fucking Clark Kent.

So I don’t tell him. When I die, I’m a John Doe. They are going to bury me in some place I don’t know. That’s my name. I don’t exist.