by tommy wyatt
yeah, so, listen: reverseimage searching the body to catch yourself faking yourself is a typical aversion to the discovery and obtuse undiscovery of plurality. yes, you're supposed to lean back on the glasscold mirror, covering one eye with hydrantorange hair so flatironed and stinking of sulfur. it's aquanet moist and crunchy for added texture. do you see how reflectionyou's eye protrudes, how eyeliner can no longer contain the void: inside you, there are two wolves, huh? instead, you worry your cheeks give off moonface, scared of others pointing at you, outing you for being sick, when their fingers are ready to fakeclaim you in the depths of the internet. each text, each frame slowly shifting to 2 am, and it's so loud to think, isn't it now?
tommy wyatt (he/they/ze) is a professional goofball with a silly amount of books, like: NOW THAT’S WHAT I CALL HORROR! (Gutslut Press); So, Who’s Courage? (Bullshit Lit); TASEREDGED (watch out!) (Querencia Press); TAKE THIS QUIZ! 11 questions to see if you agree with courage as a metaphor (Ghost City Press); and more. he's currently writing about dissociation and the things that go bump in the night. tommy thanks his cats—Mimi, Cosmo, Peanut, and Skitty—for dawn interventions.