still mourning + missing writer + friend C. D. Wofford, a year later


Streetcar named Clitoris

A flyer Clay put together for a benefit for his zine called Bleeding Hearts. The event was called A Streetcar Named Clitoris

I was preparing for his death for so long that when he died I wasn’t surprised. A bit relieved. I shouldn’t say that. But I knew it was coming, and I always worried about it, waiting for the phone call, then worried I wouldn’t get one. When his step-dad died, I knew his mom would die soon. She did, and then I cried for days because I knew it was only a matter of time until he gave up living. All his friends knew what that meant. Friends for over a decade, we knew.

I just loved him so much. It was too painful to watch him die slowly, drink by drink, day by day. And yet, all I feel is regret. I don’t know what I could have done. He was having delusions, with all the booze, solitary living, unhealthy food. In every possible way he was poisoning himself.

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C. D. Wofford, writer, friend, and love is gone

C. D. Wofford

We’d been dating a while and he didn’t want his polaroid taken. When I was going on vacation, he pulled me into the bathroom and made me take this polaroid.

Clay died. We dated when we were younger. We loved each other so very much. You never love someone like you did when you were 22. I hadn’t spoken to him since last year but I thought of him every day. The last time we spoke he wasn’t himself. And I sunk into a deep depression. I couldn’t face the reality.

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