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.
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.