Lemon and Paraffin
It’s time to change your mocktail
It’s taken years but I’m finally doing it.
I’m growing myself a tail feather.
I’m redefining who I am in crayon to myself and the world and it’s high time.
I’ve cashed my chips in as a male, not that there was much currency in it but I did it anyway and changed the steps of my jig after a lifetime of fuck-acting around the place.
Developmental trauma is a bitch let me tell you, it’s run me ragged over the years and made me an addict when all is said and done.
Add a rich rivulet of dysphoria into the proceedings and you get an expensive mocktail that tastes like lemon and paraffin.
It’d made my eyes bug over the years, that I can attest to but I kept drinking it as it was all I knew.
I’ve stripped my taste buds raw with it, they must be blackened and shriveled like the heads of burnt matchsticks by now.
Tipping at that concoction separates you from nature, any sense of normality and the herd; makes it impossible to find a mate because one’s power to attract people that way hasn’t been activated.
If You never knew a mother’s love you are fucked, basically.
I was a nowhere person without the accompaniment of a tiny violin.
I’m a somewhere person now but I’m on my lonesome.
I was forever the bright bubbly boy who had everyone in stitches with their antics, but no-one ever wanted to go home with.
I was always free to a good home too but nothing stuck.
Olivia Twisted.
All up through my teens I was mostly overcast, a human-cloud hybrid, numbed to an inch of my life and of no use to anyone, especially myself.
I had been beaten asexual and agender.
I completely lacked a primal element.
My parents always bought clothes far too big for me.
They bought them for the son they wanted not for me and I left home reeking of neglect to enter a world I wasn’t prepared for.
I’d have been picked off very quick if I’d been born a Bonobo let’s put it like that because I had nothing but dumb luck as a substitute for a primal mechanism.
Gut feelings? Only when I had food poisoning love.
The fates put Mister Magoo on Oestrogel, finally.
I was caught in a caul of my own sense of mediocrity with no buds on the bush.
So, Life was a big disappointment.
I did the best I could, I’m open to forgiving myself for it all.
All my giddiness calcified on impact with the conveyor of existence and I came a cropper soon into my 40s.
Middle age has a habit of doing that.
My efforts to believe I was a creature of some value had almost killed me this time around.
The thing about surviving a catastrophe is that it gives one a clean slate once the atrocity has been cleaned and cleared up, a Herculean attempt at forensic cleaning.
I was given another chance and I’m taking it, by Christ, with freakin bells on.
Go off and lick your wounds in your cave and get yourself together.
Time is on my side.
It’s time to make with the crayons; and time to change your mocktail.
