All of the Drive-In Theaters Are Dead

When you tickle my torso with the scalpel, it feels like the Misfits’ Last Caress: you pull away skin, reveal the promise to tear my nerves and twine them around your fingers, taut as friendship bracelets I used to make in middle school. You were taught how to be a man, how to hum like Patrick Bateman but with better music. I swallow, pretend I understand this: sexual revolution is a 1980s slasher movie poster, and I’m stuck out of time, waiting for the next Scream sequel, out of time, holding your left hand, out side by side I...

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