Dirty Heads

by Aaron Dries

They call us The Homeless. It’s easier for people to think of us as a mass, a horde, than someone’s kid.

Homeless people are like ghosts that people walk through. I’d forgotten how it felt to be seen.

All our worth was measured in what we didn’t have, not in what we had.

I’m the secret you don’t want anyone to learn. I’m the fantasy of that secret getting out, the churning in your guts at the thought—because nobody can be trusted with your truths, not even you.

“Just wait ’til you see this,” he proclaimed. “The dude fucks his mother and then they turn into cats. Plus, someone gets stabbed to death with a corn cob!”

… what?

“Heath,” Tina said without a trace of animosity or condescension, just gentle sadness I didn’t know how to resolve. “I listened to your tape, and I think you might be gay.”

tbh me

Getting older was measured in the things you outgrew without realising it, in all the stuff you thought would never not be important, yet you leave behind piece by piece.

Don’t let this be me. I don’t want this to be me. Love is in the Air. Love is in the Air! See, I’m okay with the song now. I want a girlfriend. I’m going to get married, just like Mum and Dad and everyone else on TV and in town and like my teachers. I need to be normal. Please, please God. I’ll do anything you want.

The tub chair gave a wheeze as I hopped onto it feet-first (naughty!).

What does this even mean….?

Cat hair grew in places, grafts of skin in others, the chest a patchwork of boils over caved-in ribs. A long flaccid cock dangled between its legs. Recognition clunked in my brain.

Wym by that?