Contrary to what they believed, I was never allergic to skin. Or sunrays. I wasn’t a cadre.
Arrested by three. Tortured by five. Fornication. For negligence. For negation. Wasn’t that a question about a syzygy? Or posture? He even pawned his pearls to pose with my wax figure. I sneezed profusely in their hands.
First they spoke a language that embraced you like a failed state. Then they switched. Like a passage from winter to summer, the transition was ungovernable, and violent.
Damn you all! Indecent infixes, triple consonants and doted vowels!
Like Mi Aye, I’ve had it twice.
Once for being too yellow.
Once for being too white.
Even after they’d renamed pollen fever hay, I insisted watchful trees mustn’t bloom. Rain may settle dust, but leave us with wet pyres. For padauk, however, drizzle is never enough.