The Kind of Voice that Angers Men on Public Transport
I thought I was supposed to be the one with the fucking social impairment. trying to hold this voice in my throat an act of amphibian alchemy spitting out galumphfs from ladidadidas. the echolalia of lily pads and lily-livers. I wish that I could exist out here and not end up crying on a tram in a constant state of leaky lobotomy every time an unknown man has an opinion scrambling my synapses to snot. shame is a scab of peanut butter mucus anchored to my gag reflex. I can’t breathe through it but I can’t swallow it either. so I just hock it into the clouds until they finally send me rain. I know I can only be phlegmatic if I twist its definition to simply mean full of phlegm and fluids. and sometimes I get so flustered that every word just starts to sound like those mumbo jumbo euphemisms Oprah invents to avoid saying the word vagina. vagina. feed me faux pas forgiveness in sepia tones like old timey photographs that scream aesthetic and croak bubonic. I guess I like things that I can chew into soggy ammunition because I may be an easy target but you’re not the one with the spitball.