journal (take #45)
after Hanif Abdurraqib
dear diary, it turns out i can attach a lot of antics to the age of nineteen, not the least of which was having thick black paint marker x’s drawn on my hands upon entering a bar and getting kicked out within fifteen minutes for washing them off. there was an era where nat raum wasn’t allowed to do shit, but their floridian counterpart natalie ann stevens was the toast of baltimore, queen of tequila soda, roused each day at sunset to raise hell and like it before diving into a stranger’s bed to pass out—do not resuscitate, at least not like this, while vena cava couriers coconut rum and i pawn the worst of my habits off onto another name. dear diary, don’t ask me why i stopped drinking down the line. don’t flood my ears with whys, because i don’t have answers, only stories and fleetwood mac songs and a scoff: why the hell not?
nat raum (b. 1996) is a disabled artist, writer, and genderless disaster based on unceded Piscataway and Susquehannock land in Baltimore. They’re the editor-in-chief of fifth wheel press and the author of this book will not save you, the abyss is staring back, random access memory, and others. Past and upcoming publishers of their writing include Gone Lawn, Split Lip Magazine, Allium, and BRUISER. Find them online at natraum.com.