Jump to User:

myOtaku.com: X Shadowme X


Wednesday, April 22, 2020


south
You pack a bag and drive south
your mother does not kick you out. Does not stuff everything you own into garbage bags while you're at work, toss it at you on your way home, and scream, her index finger pointing away from the house, that you are no longer welcome. She doesn't threaten. She doesn't goad. She just says with a wrinkled face, "We don't do that here. I hope you understand."

You hear her talking to Ms. Mary or Ms. Beth or Ms. Jolene later about camps, about injections, about electroshock therapy to help. You tell yourself it's a bad dream in order to get to sleep. What sleep you do manage to get is so shallow and troubled it's almost like not sleeping at all.

You pack a bag and drive south.
You try to talk to your mom that morning, try to tell her you no longer feel welcome in her home anyway. She says, "No, you're welcome here. Your TENDENCIES aren't."
Like you didn't feel it in your veins the first time you saw a girl smile at you and blush, like you didn't feel something clank against your brain the second the priest snarled about gay marriage in church, like men exist for you as anything but a distant other. Like you know how to be any other way.

You pack a bag and drive south. She's downstairs cooking dinner, talking to your sisters.

You've had a black of ice melting in your stomach all day, the taste of something sharp, dry, and metallic, in the back of your throat.

You pack a bag and drive to your friends house in Pennsylvania. At midnight, she texts your phone asking where you went.
You said you needed space. She doesn't text back.

Comments (0)

« Home