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.
FOMO AT THE ORGY
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.