I have a mouth but I’m still screaming

When I was 11, I thought that boys would never want me because they never had before, and I was at the age where I was starting to notice them and they noticed me but not in the way I wanted them to so I sought to control what they saw of me but enough of myself crept back (in like a raccoon to a garbage can that they all screamed like girls and dropped their groceries and went inside).

I realised then that whatever I was was toxic and ugly and it would have to be gone to get someone to want to hold my hand (despite the warts on my thumb and ring fingers of the right hand) but I couldn’t suppress it like a fart in class so I resigned myself to being crazy but pretty too smart to be loved.

When I was 14 boys started to see that toxic could be erotic and my mother said my nose finally fit my face instead of making me look like a racist caricature and I had breasts and that was be all and end all. Boys liked that I knew things about the world and comics and movies and that I made terrible jokes but the ones that weren’t afraid of my brain, (which was still too big and I imagined it to look like the martians in movies I’d seen on television), those ones were toxic and uglier than me and they made sure I sank back into the swamp and the only mirror I saw was covered in algae and tinted yellow from the piss of passing dogs. They pushed their way in and dug to the heart through my genitals, leaving blood on the sheets and moving my organs to resemble a David Cronenberg film.

When he moved on others moved in and I got to be myself, all 5 feet six inches of it, but it wasn’t all it was made to seem in every movie I had seen since I knew that sometimes people kissed because myself was a fetish something men thought about, a box to fit into, a pedestal to fall down from, something boys dreamt of and I was real but I had problems and issues and needed saving and they forgot that I had seen the same movies, I was the hero with a thousand faces too,  and no one got to save me but me.

When they moved on and I was truly alone, then I found myself and I stopped caring if they loved me because even if they didn’t, and I didn’t, at least when I was alone I got to pick the channel.