#challenge by

Summer breeze and Ripple

This is Clay Dowell (he/them). He's your stereotypical "troublemaker". They fall asleep in class, constantly have a monster drink in their hands, always seen having fights at the back of the school and can never be found on campus after lunch. The only friend they seem to have is the Geek.

[Tl;dr or maybe too long, didn't understand: i wrote in english and my autocorrect do its thing... Can you guess where i'm from ?]

15 Day Walk The Moon Challenge 5/15: my favorite song from Talking Is Hard is Come Under The Covers

nose running      people staring whispers ‘Don’t you know / you know / notice?” blurred apart head down, head hunched more than back (don’t have running in me anymore)                                              other things running adult diaper crinkling plastic shames. i think. i think diapers were different when I was small, and these ones aren’t just those made bigger, another adult thing making no sense at all.  time twitches apart in summer the world is clam-banked hot, nose weeping a city of shit-stained mouths, streets, smelling worse than vomit on shoes. Disgusted stares a circumcision of me voices judging thick wit scorn lie colostomy bags overflowing as if everyone had bedpans to turn into armour, as if we could be like dogs, and love dog food every night. Roaches are terrified of humans, I found out working in a kitchen;                                                                         no one could say why so many answers no one gives, life a tapeworm diet, our stomaches filled with billions of lifeforms we never seek to befriend, walking as meatsacks for bacteria, DNA-chain gangs, staring at TV monitors like lizards basking in the sun, like gila monsters must watch monster movies at least my sins are softened by this dying, the horny toad more than I will ever be (all we ever had in common were warts) and a janitor is following me cleaning up behind, word-pulling me toward a bed and I say I used to be in the movies, and he says this is his backstage pass and I can ask well enough in this sour smelling not-death to not cry and his kindness makes me think all janitors are god and I ask how he survives us, how he lives knowing this is the future in a diaper overflowing tears running into my nose and small parts of me can run still like shame finding ways to dig roots into a body too old to do more than smell of dying things and I think roaches would not be scared of me now and the whispers  are silenced by other emotions I don’t want to know at all as my name moves down hallways and rooms like a bomb going off and I was in a monster movie once but there isn’t enough of me left to be anything at all, not even words to match the venom of a gila monster.