by Andy Connor
Andy Connor is a nonbinary poet and essayist who lives in Melbourne, Australia.
hey boy, are you an out-of-service bus?
because I don't want to ride you, and you seem empty inside
hey boy, are you a Marvel movie?
because I feel like I've seen you before, and you don't let women talk enough
hey boy, are you a fifth century Etruscan tomb?
because your veneer is crumbling, and nobility is dead inside you
hey boy, are you a subprime mortgage?
because I don't understand you, but I have a vague sense that you're to blame for many catastrophes
hey boy, are you a taxidermied owl on my grandfather's mantle?
because I'm sorry somebody did that to you, but you’re freaking me out
hey boy, are you the Sacrament of the Eucharist?
because for a crumby flake, the amount of drama you've caused is unbelievable
hey boy, are you the feeling of regret?
because when I leave, you will not accompany me
WHAT IS IT LIKE
It's like throwing a spear into a sprinkler.
It's like giving mouth-to-mouth to a lake.
It's like being bequeathed a diamond and immediately stabbing every mirror you can find.
It's like realising that both of your parents are mirrors, and that you are a mirror also, and that what you had previously mistaken for love was merely the vertiginous feedback loop of mirror reflecting mirror reflecting mirror.
It's like standing on a 400-foot yacht, and pissing down onto a crowd of scared 300-foot yachts.
It's like being sold, but for a breathtakingly high price.
It's like your newborn child winking at you and mouthing 'play along'.
It's like granting asylum to the moon.
It's like realising that the escalator conspiracy goes all the way to the top.
It's like cosplaying as a person who can handle it.
It's like a sitcom starring the black hole at the centre of our galaxy.
It's like a tornado blowing through a junkyard and perfectly assembling your relationship with your parents.
It's like wearing a full suit of armour beneath your business-casual blouse, and no-one ever noticing.
It’s like realising that you can walk on water at the exact instant that you realise your friends can’t.
It's like every Secretary-General of the United Nations arguing over who's the best kisser.
It's like every Secretary-General of the United Nations turning to you, eyes smouldering, saying you must settle this.
It's like having your phone surgically implanted in your chest, so that your heart vibrates when they text.
It’s like wanting to text back, but not being able to because your phone is in your chest.
(It’s like that, forever.)
It's supposed to be like driving a car made of ice.
But it's more like sitting in a puddle of engine-warm water in the middle of a highway.
It's supposed to be like rage against the machine.
But it's more like sadness inside the machine?
It's supposed to be like how birds feel to the sky.
But it's more like how the sky shone through the crack in your neck.