Page 152 of I Can't Even Think Straight

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my injured body feels like an inconvenience

that Mum doesn’t want to be lumbered with.

I feel like a sack of shit

sprinkled with the rainbow glitter of

Vass and Theía Estélla’s love.

I’m propped up in Vass’s bed

with many heavenly pillows

behind my back and head,

a large stack of colorful cushions

under my right arm,

and a few under my right foot.

Half my limbs are out of action,

but I’m lucky I’m left-handed, I think,

as I look to the evil eye bracelet

around my left wrist.

Beside my phone, notebook, and pencil case,

a book calledTrans Teen Zine Volume One

by a Scottish author and actor called Finlay

sits atop a stack of other books

Vass has thoughtfully gathered

for me to read in bed this morning.

They’ve been bringing me things,

like I’m a fledgling in their nest,

kinda like Michael does for Skellig.

I’m lucky to have Vass, I think.

“You have a visitor, sir,”

Vass announces formally,

like they’re my servant.

Their long hair is all pinned up

like a maid or a matron.

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