She called me a chicken. “You’re a chicken,” she said.
“I’m not a chicken,” I told her, “I’m a man. And sometimes a child. And sometimes
a beast. Sometimes a goddamned fool and sometimes a fooldamned god.”
Sometimes and all times and no times I’m whatever I need to be or whatever I think
you are or whatever it smells like when I drag myself out and play in the dirt.
Sometimes I lock the already closed door, save a puppy’s life, bury a despot, make a pie.
And yes, fuck her, sometimes I am a chicken.
“Just ‘fool’ would have sufficed,” she said.
But I was too busy alternately crushing and coddling worlds to respond.
Fuck me, I thought, sometimes I’m the chicken, sometimes the egg, or
the blue-moon fox. But more often than not, I’m the chicken with the pox.
-J. Wyer
(via Swanksalot)