Dear Mx. ***e ******t,
It comes to my attention that I don’t give you enough attention. Fine. Synonyms for what I wear beneath the surface is a touchy subject. As in one I don’t like to touch. But want to touch. Is that possible? Don’t answer that. I’m mad at you, and I need to be right now. Plus, given the sharpness of your elastic teeth, your tentacled flowerets of lace, I deserve a break (I don’t really know from what: maybe myself. But this isn’t addressed to myself. You might retort, “Well, aren’t all forms of writing to ourselves?” To which I reply:
“Shut up.”) Okay. I’m not asking for a Google Spreadsheet, but I’m asking for some kind of spread. One where I see your wares. To observe ways in which my blood fills up circumference. The distance between one thigh and the other is a trick of perception, i.e., mishmash zoology, wrinkly addendums.
To be honest–and this doesn’t leave the room–but fucking with your underwear on is just better in every way. I said it. Reason #1: The shape of me is contained to a constellation. There aren’t any other reasons, actually. I like consistency. It’s revealing without being revealing. That does(n’t) make sense (does it?). I don’t want to know what’s in my own pants. Let alone my legs. Or shirt. Or behind my tongue.
Delineation. Graphically obtuse. Deformation of a mountain range. It’s like snow-capped peaks that never know the meaning of naked. A region where monsters dwell and we’re comfortable to leave them be. I guess that’s what I’m saying. Proverbial bedroom creatures shulking in soupy dark, yada yada yada. I’m about the backspace for approximately 33 seconds and type in the absence:
“I regret to inform myself that your bulge is showing.
No further details or attachments have been enclosed.
Kindly,
Me (in a cute cursive font)”
Why do you think you deserve a whole floor to yourselves in my dresser? (Moreover: why is it always the top?) Etymologically, you’re one who draws, which already seems categorically off, since neither of us are satisfied with how the other party is drawn. Or defined. Maybe it’s like archery, the pelvis a crossbow loosed upon what fails us. Us. (It’s us, sorry, I know how you like things abundantly clear.)
But that’s the problem. We have to fit in here. Together. My slime, your tufts of fur thick as iron. My bloodlust, your bloodthirst. The variance between: anti-variance. Your moonlight, my moon, my something-or-other, our need for the hunt, my hunt. The one where I enter your space. The one where I’m not welcome, but I welcome myself in any way.
Bestest,
Me (again)
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Liam Strong (they/them) is a queer neurodivergent cottagecore straight edge punk writer who has earned their B.A. in writing from University of Wisconsin-Superior. They are the author of the chapbook everyone’s left the hometown show (Bottlecap Press, 2023). You can find their poetry and essays in Impossible Archetype and Emerald City, among several others. They are most likely gardening and listening to Bitter Truth somewhere in Northern Michigan.
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image: MM Kaufman
Rejection Letters 