Tuesday, August 2, 2011

short story

In his body he was always not good enough. Maybe it started with perverse infantile sexuality; maybe it was Alexis' delicacy next to his muscle that made him feel blunt and squat and rectangular. Maybe the shrill homophobic taunts on the playground convinced him that he was asexual, or maybe life had simply taught him he was safer that way.

He took this out of himself in cold, salty sweat, sticky on his arms for years on end. He used the aching of his back and the searing pain through his legs to punish what was wrong; it never worked.

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