The nightmare where I am back in middle school
A speck of dust fights with glitter on the floor of my school’s gymnasium. A wrestling match rolling from corner to corner of the green linoleum, invisible to most.
There is awkwardness in my legs, visible to all but me as these are the only legs I have known at this point. Now they’re queuing but shortly they will be wrapped on the climbing frame, skin rubbing against the dents left on the varnished wood.
The bad thing about being twelve is that the body has grown in uneven proportions and the brain cannot control it elegantly, so there is a risk my arms will flop when needed the most. The good thing about being twelve is that I would rather my skull be shattered on the floor than endure another week of this merciless zoo.
As the coach’s lips purse around the whistle, I release whatever bony strength I have been able to gather. I start grasping desperately at each bar, fuelled by the survival instinct that lies in all delicate beings. My lungs (still pink, soft, and untouched by Marlboro Golds) propel me upwards. Someone jokes that I look like a gay eel but I do not have time to care because there is another square of the frame that now needs to be conquered.
I am emerging from my state. I am ascending to something, somewhere. Until the bars end and all of a sudden I am a fly on the wall, again.
Francesco Palma is an Italian poet and lawyer based in London. He is interested in perceptions of queerness from both external and internal points of view. He can be found on instagram @frapalm