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Choke me with slender, hairless hands. I’m sick

of God’s thick fingers down my throat, His ugly

tumescence poking around. I have to swat away

His fly-prick just to sit down, to make miles

out of thumb and screen. I enjoy my time, I promise.

I like that I can make nothing feel like something —

it’s a survival tactic.

Otherwise, I might just kill myself, let the

head-shrinking oratory of better men become

the be-all. And the end-all will come when I

blink myself into oblivion, my tiny skull

collapsing under fluttered eyelashes.


We had to open a window, too hot

of a day, too many breaths taking a

chance at being the room. I thought

about doing it, until someone asked

me. We had a bit of a back and forth

but I was glad I got up, glad I could

feel the cold against my chest, let the

wind kiss me in its gentle way. I think

it must have felt lonely, must have seen

through the glass. It was just too hot of a day

to cry, there were no tears against the window

then. The wind hates a cold day, hates to be hated,

no one opens a window when it’s cold. On a day like

this, the wind will get to be the room, will get to love in its

way. I stood there for a while, letting myself be loved, separate

from the give or take. I heard a little melody that the wind had carried

for me. It was the ice cream van. There was a sweet promise in its sound

but none of us were in a state to go outside. I was tempted to go in just my

jeans. Time would allow me that much, I thought. Besides, the weather would

justify it. It wouldn’t be unbecoming to stroll without a shirt on this summer’s day.

I wouldn’t seem at all debaucherous, arriving at that scene of sweet delight. The sun

would have something to say, I’m sure. But the wind can cup its hands around your ears,

tell you that it’s all okay and to just eat your ice cream. I wish I was more proactive, or that

the wind had led me to the door. I don’t know how to ask a room of shifting breath to go get

ice cream with me. I might’ve been the only one to want any. It was all too much and the van

had other places to be, it turned out.


Dylan Parkin (he/him) is an autistic creative currently based in Reading, UK. He can be found on Twitter @parkin1901.

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