By Thomas Hobohm
My throat is a forest fire. It’s sandpaper-rough, porous, pissed off at all the men I’ve shoved down it and all the sorrys I’ve pulled out of it. I’ve taken men like nectar from the dirtiest flowers in the dirtiest fields. I’ve taken men against my will & against my better judgment. I’ve taken men to places you can’t come back from. I’ve taken men to the STD clinic for a shot in the ass & back home again, to the public restroom & the private steam room. I’m saying I’ve sucked dick everywhere, so my throat is punishing me. It won’t let me eat or sleep or read or stand, no, I. can’t. stand. it. for. another. second. so I’m making a deal with God, I’m Fausting: fix my throat and I won’t waste another second. Fix my throat and I’ll superglue my hands to all those unread poetry books on my desk. Fix my throat and I’ll headbutt the gym, pound the concrete, get my blood pressure pumping. Fix my throat and I’ll answer every text, submit to every journal, go to every open mic. I’ll lose every inhibition. I’ll still fuck a billion men a year but I’ll start getting tested monthly. I’ll drop the pretense, I’ll be a good literary citizen, I’ll stop stealing all my best words & ideas & poems, I’ll be true to myself, I will, even if I never get published. I mean it! Just let me gobble up some chips & salsa / drop a glob on my sweatpants / rush to the sink / dab a dirty rag soaked in soapy water / create another infinite stain. Let me inhale a cane-sugar coke / down the wrong pipe / cough-syrup spray all over my MacBook / sprint to the store / buy a ridiculous bag of rice / drop it in there for days. Esophagus, uvula, lymph nodes, why are you doing all that? Don’t you know by now that I can inflict my own pain? I can hurt myself in ways you can’t even imagine, if only you’ll let me.
Thomas Hobohm (they/them) is a writer from SF by way of Texas. They’re interested in interrogating queer desire. When they’re not reading or writing, they like to play volleyball and explore independent cinemas.
