He just likes clean teeth. Drills the decay twice before filling. I want to ask if he denies mental illness each time he performs a task well, like wiping his arse twice after taking a shit. But the anaesthesia has spread to my eyelid, and I can’t speak through the appropriation of my disorder as an alphabetised bookshelf, or westernised Feng Shui. A hygiene cliché, minimising debilitating episodes to the scraping of rot from my mouth after surviving on package sealed food, because the compulsion to touch the cutlery exceeded the need to eat.
During lockdown, Carson (they/them) adopted a cat to live like an eccentric writer, but now spends most of their time salvaging the poems her keyboard paws delete – rather than actually writing them. Surviving work can be found in Fourteen Poems, Stone of Madness Press, and Kissing Dynamite, amongst others.