Chris On

My legs are not the same size (just like my testicles), therefore, if I stand for too long, my left hip begins to ache. This is the reason I assume, at least. I have never measured my legs.

In school I would sit in my too-big blazer and too-small short sleeved M&S school shirt, and I would scratch at the concrete between the exposed bricks with a paperclip I had unfurled. By the end of the year, I had made an imprint in the corner where four bricks met—my fingers covered in their dust.

Years later I would look at those bricks. I could not find where it was I had scratched.

And in school my hand would be raised and I would answer the question and I would be scolded and my hand would be raised and I was scolded and my hand would be raised and I answered the question and they would scold me

Faggot

he called me. And my hand would be raised and I would be asked to write an essay on what you have done wrong and my hand was raised and I would answer the question and they would not tell me what I had done wrong and I was scolded

Do you know you look like a faggot?

And the question was answered and his hands were raised. And the teacher would do nothing and my hand was raised and I would answer the question. On a worksheet asking me my favourite type of exercise I wrote Masturbation and they would scold me and my hand would be raised

Fuck off

I told him and the question was answered and the long-haired physics teacher did nothing. And I was scolded and would I complain to my friend about being told to be Constantly on the lookout for Islamic Terrorism and I would be overheard and I was scolded

Tell me to fuck off again and I will punch you in the face

And his hand was raised and I would be asked a question and they would scold me. I told my teacher she was being an idiot and I knew what I had said this time. I was told that I called her an idiot. The significance of the word being and the implication therein that she was not, in actuality, an idiot was not appreciated when I brought it up and I was scolded

Fuck off

I said again and his arms were raised and I was falling and I could not find my silver-hoop earring. Do you know you look like a faggot? And the implications of the words look like and my hands were raised and the question was answered and I would scratch at the ground as I looked for my earring.

My bathroom at the time had cabinets with mirrored doors at a 90° angle to a full-length mirror. So, if you opened one of the doors just right you could see your whole body in 360°. I would stand there naked for hours a time. The stretch marks on my back, the spots on top of my ribs, the bloodshot right eye, the birthmark on my intercostals that resembles a third nipple. I would sit and scratch my corner in the door.

My left testicle (the smaller of the two) has a lump in it that I am sometimes worried about. But I have had it for as long as I have been aware of my testicles.

Now I am walking to the library and I see a bus pull in. Its doors open and I notice a sticker on one of its poles. It reads: Hold me, I’ve been cleaned and I feel my rabbit heart jump.

I would always clean my testicles twice in the shower, they were the sweatiest part of me and my men’s shower gel was watery. But women’s shower gel lacked the practicality of the hook that saved me from having to pick up the bottle. So that was my compromise. I would trim my toenails with my curved scissors. I could only do this after showering as the heat was required to soften them. I used to sit and pick at them, going wonderfully deep and exposing toe flesh. When I shaved, the blue gel made my teeth look even yellower. And I would cut my lip with my disposable razor.

Hold me. I’ve been cleaned.

I used to get out of my too-hot showers—sweating more than when I got in—and feel my arms float off.

I would scratch the steam off the mirrors with my palm.

And I remember travelling in the car with my father. He would put on his playlist titled exercise playlist and I would struggle to see the connection. It would be hard to imagine my dad jogging to Elvis Costello.

I could not think of a single thing to say to him.

The seats in that car were uncomfortable. They were too deliberate almost. I don’t know, it’s hard to explain. I would sit—right leg draped over left—and listen to the sound of the road change.

A message would flash on the dashboard.

Passenger Airbag On

Please Acknowledge

I would have trouble sleeping at that time. But in that car, it was easy. Shifting as I began to drift off, I would watch my dad’s teeth. Nicotine yellow.

Passenger Airbag On

Please Acknowledge

He would roll down the window and spit his chewing gum onto the road, briefly waking me. And I would see the streetlights had turned from yellow to white.

Back then he had a habit of saying okay in response to my thank yous—

Passenger Airbag On

Please acknowledge

I would stir halfway through those journeys, and I would see the sunrise and the birds and say nothing at all and in that giddy state the message read:

Siren bird squawking in G minor

please acknowledge

Or was it

lyrical tonguing of cavities

please acknowledge

And I would have written it down but to write in cars made me sick. So I looked into the wing mirror and scratched at the plastic button that brought the window up
and brought the window down.
 I knew that irritated him.

But that hum as the road went from gravel to smooth.

And it started to drizzle when we arrived or rather when we arrived it started to drizzle

and stop. Listen—

Blonde on Blonde can’t compete In. out. in.

  The friction of it. And I can almost feel the molecules

    desperate. spitting.

 my hair short now and the comfort of my lungs

 Hangs. This dangerous physical activity—to dance like I could.

 Climbing my ribcage rungs

 and feel breath in

 and feel my hips

 grin.

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