The Blood on the Nose 

It is not normal, my father says.

My mother merely shakes her head.

And yet it seems ordinary to me,

like scratching where it itches

or swatting at the fly that comes too close.

Or even, when I was twelve,

giving the kid

who called me “fag boy”

a bloody nose.

And here, alone,

in my apartment,

with Jeffrey moved out,

taking all his stuff,

my parents not speaking to me,

and my hand sore

from where my fist hit the wall.

And look,

I made a dent like a nose.

I do believe it’s bleeding.

Andrej Bilovsky (he/him) is a poet and performance artist. Former editor of  Masculine-Feminine and Kapesnik. His poetry can be found at the Quiver and Down In The Dirt.