Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Pride Month 2022, Writing

First Time Caller


it doesn’t matter what my name is,
you wouldn’t be able to spell it,
so there’s no use in me telling.
There’s some things I need to tell,
some things that are scorching my soul,
and I’m starting to wonder if beneath my skin lies a madness,
some kind of sickness,
that I don’t know how to fix.

I looked at all the pills in the medicine cabinet,
and none of them seemed to fit my fixation.
None of them promised a solution for my condition.
I’m all out of position.
Gravity is a fairytale,
and I’m eleven now, so I’m getting old.
I put my glasses on.
I take them off.
Nothing changes.
The world is exactly how I’ve always seen it,
and his face is how I can’t help but see it.
I think there’s something wrong with it,
maybe something wrong with me,
but I’ve got to revise for my SATs,
so I don’t have the spare time to fix whatever the fuck this is.

I have the body of a budding woman,
but the face of a beautiful baby,
and all she ever does is cry.
All I can think to do is cry,
because there’s change on the horizon,
and in the back of my mind, where I hope people can’t see it,
and I just hope that I’ll spontaneously die before I have to deal with it.

I am beginning to understand why my mother worries.

Why can’t I see what all the other girls can see?
I try the glasses thing again and I’m galled by how nothing changes.
Why can’t I see what all the other girls see?
Why can’t he have soft, rose tinted lips,
that sweet sheen on his skin that sends my soul screaming?
His face is angular and alarming,
stony in such a way that I am petrified,
missing my Medusa as I meet loneliness under the full moon.

I don’t believe in her.
She is a ghost story.
She is an urban myth.
She is the kind of thing that will unravel me,
and as the days dance by,
I am starting to see that she has many soft, sweet faces, with rose tinted lips,
so all I do is run,
hoping that she cannot catch up to me.

I am eleven and I can’t be in love,
but I’m lost in this confusing lust.
I love it.
I long for it.
Yearning and hounded by my hunger for it,
and yet,
begging for the burning of my desire to drown in the mercy of cold, cruel showers.

The possibility of falling in love is overwhelming,
and I’m overloaded with the most mundane of fantasies.
I want to go to a drive in movie and be met with the kind of monster that will steal me away to a faraway island,
the kind of place where nobody can survive,
so that nobody can see me when I’m alone and attacked by my attraction to the 50 ft woman.

What am I going to do?

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