Charlie Zacks is a writer, editor, etc. from Atlanta, Georgia. He lives and studies in Montreal where he runs Stimulant, an independent literary publication. He believes in all the right things and hates all the things you hate.

“too scared to tell my mom” is a blog.

The first time you met me you knew I was looking for something, my eyes darting around the room like the walls had something to say. I can only hope I am not hollow. I can only hope I have something, that there is something in me that I can give you. You don’t need to need it. I swear. I remember laying on my back in the forest. Against the overcast sky, tree branches become one dimensional, projected over the clouds. My ex-girlfriend had just told me she thought she was pregnant. I was sixteen and the rain felt like nothing on my face. Moments like these are discontinuous. Time surely beats like a heart. Lay on my chest. How are you real?

The first time you met me you knew I was looking for something, my eyes darting around the room like the walls had something to say. I can only hope I am not hollow. I can only hope I have something, that there is something in me that I can give you. You don’t need to need it. I swear. I remember laying on my back in the forest. Against the overcast sky, tree branches become one dimensional, projected over the clouds. My ex-girlfriend had just told me she thought she was pregnant. I was sixteen and the rain felt like nothing on my face. Moments like these are discontinuous. Time surely beats like a heart. Lay on my chest. How are you real?

Yesterday I was on one of my usual runs on the mountain. It was seventy degrees, sunny with a breeze. The best day of the year so far. I made my way to Beaver Lake, a kind of man-made pond on the mountain that’s used for ice skating in the winter and photos in the summer. The sun was setting, so I did as I usually do and stood and watched. To my left were two men likely in their late twenties, early thirties. They were sitting together on the same blanket, leg inches from leg, their feet almost touching to complete the circuit. I could feel the electricity. It was some kind of love beyond platonic friendship. The man on the left lifted the man on the right’s shirt to expose his back. He was running his finger across the other man’s back, looking for some kind of abnormality. He delicately placed his hand on the man’s back, no longer only one finger, but rather the whole palm. I could feel it. I know that feeling. Skin to skin. It’s circuitry. They too watched the sunset while I wondered what it would be like to see through another’s eyes.

Yesterday I was on one of my usual runs on the mountain. It was seventy degrees, sunny with a breeze. The best day of the year so far. I made my way to Beaver Lake, a kind of man-made pond on the mountain that’s used for ice skating in the winter and photos in the summer. The sun was setting, so I did as I usually do and stood and watched. To my left were two men likely in their late twenties, early thirties. They were sitting together on the same blanket, leg inches from leg, their feet almost touching to complete the circuit. I could feel the electricity. It was some kind of love beyond platonic friendship. The man on the left lifted the man on the right’s shirt to expose his back. He was running his finger across the other man’s back, looking for some kind of abnormality. He delicately placed his hand on the man’s back, no longer only one finger, but rather the whole palm. I could feel it. I know that feeling. Skin to skin. It’s circuitry. They too watched the sunset while I wondered what it would be like to see through another’s eyes.

I see in your eyes a kind of longing. I’m sorry, I can’t give you what you are looking for. I can give you the form of it. It may look like love, but I can’t quite connect the dots and for that I am sorry. I know I feel attachment, but it’s the kind of attachment a child feels to an inner-tube in the middle of the ocean. I am a lot like him. Maybe I love like a cat. Is that ok? To love in expectation?

I see in your eyes a kind of longing. I’m sorry, I can’t give you what you are looking for. I can give you the form of it. It may look like love, but I can’t quite connect the dots and for that I am sorry. I know I feel attachment, but it’s the kind of attachment a child feels to an inner-tube in the middle of the ocean. I am a lot like him. Maybe I love like a cat. Is that ok? To love in expectation?

Look at the man in the TV. He’s talking to you. If there aren’t voices in your head, you’re crazy. Morphine, you can’t just come back from that. You go to the hospital and they show you God. You go to the church and all they give you is ritual. I need answers. How many bones are in the human body? Let’s count. When you’re truly cold, it feels like your skin is moving. Somewhere between a dream and reality, I’ll find you there. You’re beautiful in a way I’m not supposed to say. I find myself scrolling through old pictures trying to remember what it felt like to be anything at all. Back on the ground.

Look at the man in the TV. He’s talking to you. If there aren’t voices in your head, you’re crazy. Morphine, you can’t just come back from that. You go to the hospital and they show you God. You go to the church and all they give you is ritual. I need answers. How many bones are in the human body? Let’s count. When you’re truly cold, it feels like your skin is moving. Somewhere between a dream and reality, I’ll find you there. You’re beautiful in a way I’m not supposed to say. I find myself scrolling through old pictures trying to remember what it felt like to be anything at all. Back on the ground.

I remember the feeling of being tackled for the first time playing football. I was on the offensive line, so rarely would tackling be in the conversation for me, but on occasion the coach would have me play running back or tight end or something just to see what I was capable of. At some point I was passed, likely handed, the ball and I ran because that’s what you do. I made it maybe twenty yards before I felt the impact. It didn’t hurt really. It felt natural, like an answer, you know? We hit the ground hard and I still felt no pain. The linebacker’s face was now directly in front of mine and he was on top of me. Our face masks were interlocked and briefly I knew him better than anyone else in the world. I felt his breath on my face. I still can. The sounds of the scrimmage reduced to a low end rumble like in the movies. It was just us, there. That’s the kind of silence only possible amidst chaos.

I remember the feeling of being tackled for the first time playing football. I was on the offensive line, so rarely would tackling be in the conversation for me, but on occasion the coach would have me play running back or tight end or something just to see what I was capable of. At some point I was passed, likely handed, the ball and I ran because that’s what you do. I made it maybe twenty yards before I felt the impact. It didn’t hurt really. It felt natural, like an answer, you know? We hit the ground hard and I still felt no pain. The linebacker’s face was now directly in front of mine and he was on top of me. Our face masks were interlocked and briefly I knew him better than anyone else in the world. I felt his breath on my face. I still can. The sounds of the scrimmage reduced to a low end rumble like in the movies. It was just us, there. That’s the kind of silence only possible amidst chaos.

Life is lovely when you are done living it. Something like that at least. I found myself in Italy falling for a straight man. At this point, falling in love feels a lot more like taking a cold shower. There is no storybook for me. I’m left with hits from his cigarette, sips of his beer, and inside jokes. I want to be here. I want to be able to feel better, but I think this may be forever. I need a year. I need a year alone. I need a year alone in the woods. I need a year alone in the woods near water. I need water. I need to be alone in the water. Mom told me to never swim alone. I need cold water. I need to swim alone. I think I’m waiting for the moment when my soul meets my body. I can’t rush this. There are storm clouds rushing in. The sky is gray even over Rome. I promise you gray finds itself anywhere. I am writing to myself. You will find yourself flying through the wilderness. You are clinging to water.

Life is lovely when you are done living it. Something like that at least. I found myself in Italy falling for a straight man. At this point, falling in love feels a lot more like taking a cold shower. There is no storybook for me. I’m left with hits from his cigarette, sips of his beer, and inside jokes. I want to be here. I want to be able to feel better, but I think this may be forever. I need a year. I need a year alone. I need a year alone in the woods. I need a year alone in the woods near water. I need water. I need to be alone in the water. Mom told me to never swim alone. I need cold water. I need to swim alone. I think I’m waiting for the moment when my soul meets my body. I can’t rush this. There are storm clouds rushing in. The sky is gray even over Rome. I promise you gray finds itself anywhere. I am writing to myself. You will find yourself flying through the wilderness. You are clinging to water.

It wasn’t until 4:30pm the following day John texted me back. We decided to meet at a park, certainly near his house and an hour from my dorm. I biked there, anxiously awaiting the kind of connection I unconsciously came all this way for. I arrive at the park and he is sitting with his friend. It turns out his friend is the intellectually disabled young man he cares for in exchange for living rent-free in his home. They seemed great friends and in my ignorance I had no idea he could have been disabled in any way. John pulls out his guitar, so I pull out mine, a green acoustic I bought in Rome, the cheapest in the shop. It is ugly and hardly plays in tune, but I had to ask twice for it in the shop, so I figured it must be special. John and I played, but he kept staring off in the distance. I asked him what was wrong and he told me him and his friend had eaten edibles earlier. I have nothing against drugs, really. I myself have practiced the art of fucking up my own brain in various different ways. The issue was that he was somewhere I was not. You can’t reach someone like that. He slept two hours the night before. He was still coming down from ecstasy and at the peak of his high from the edibles. That desperation I noticed at the jazz bar, it turns out, was indicative of some pursuit. Maybe the other way around. He was running. From what, I was, and am, in no place to discover. Then he mentioned his girlfriend. She’s in Bucharest. They met when she was fleeing from something too. He said they had lived together for a year. I tried to make sense of the timeline, but soon realized John, like me, lived a life hopelessly disconnected from the lines of cause and effect. The pieces are all there, moments floating around the snowglobe, pebbles impossible to sift out of the dirt and garbage of stories told and retold. I left the park knowing I would never hear from him again.

It wasn’t until 4:30pm the following day John texted me back. We decided to meet at a park, certainly near his house and an hour from my dorm. I biked there, anxiously awaiting the kind of connection I unconsciously came all this way for. I arrive at the park and he is sitting with his friend. It turns out his friend is the intellectually disabled young man he cares for in exchange for living rent-free in his home. They seemed great friends and in my ignorance I had no idea he could have been disabled in any way. John pulls out his guitar, so I pull out mine, a green acoustic I bought in Rome, the cheapest in the shop. It is ugly and hardly plays in tune, but I had to ask twice for it in the shop, so I figured it must be special. John and I played, but he kept staring off in the distance. I asked him what was wrong and he told me him and his friend had eaten edibles earlier. I have nothing against drugs, really. I myself have practiced the art of fucking up my own brain in various different ways. The issue was that he was somewhere I was not. You can’t reach someone like that. He slept two hours the night before. He was still coming down from ecstasy and at the peak of his high from the edibles. That desperation I noticed at the jazz bar, it turns out, was indicative of some pursuit. Maybe the other way around. He was running. From what, I was, and am, in no place to discover. Then he mentioned his girlfriend. She’s in Bucharest. They met when she was fleeing from something too. He said they had lived together for a year. I tried to make sense of the timeline, but soon realized John, like me, lived a life hopelessly disconnected from the lines of cause and effect. The pieces are all there, moments floating around the snowglobe, pebbles impossible to sift out of the dirt and garbage of stories told and retold. I left the park knowing I would never hear from him again.