A virus is like a secret,
once it’s out, it’s out.
Like, hey, don’t tell anyone,
but I’m gay, and I have blood
in my lungs. I’m trying to choke
the gay out of myself
before anyone else can. You
see, it’s all about control:
needing it, and taking it,
and the in-between state
of having complete control
and spiralling out of it at the same time.
So if I want to find a vaccine
for all the bad thoughts I’m having
about myself, isn’t that just another
way of saying that I’m trying to make myself
immune to hatred from outside?
If it originates in the lungs,
in the mind, in the sickly body,
then it’s somehow more authentic.
And maybe I can deal with it
a little better. Only a little,
because I’m still one-hand-pinned
against the wall, choking myself
to the point that I can’t form words,
can’t say the things I’m desperately
trying to adjust to.
From a portfolio I wrote in third year of university, titled 'Infestation'.
