by Chloe Wheeler
perish the thought. cease the behavior. drop half a Russian tea biscuit in your coffee and fish it out with your fingers before it turns to sludge in your roommates white chipped ceramic mug. imagine earth in the late Devonian period teeming with prototaxites, phallic organisms of their own mysterious genus. peculiar obelisks feasting on dead plant matter. serving what purpose? just to exist, then no more. did they throb? ache? how did they communicate? cough. you’re thinking about parts of you that are fossilized and dormant. though they are gone you sense them still. gracefully preserved like bog mummies. the ability to feel or feel real for that matter. flickers of vestigial sensuality. does it matter? you do laundry every week now. make your bed every day. you’re productive. and it’s for you. everybody be saying go girl! protect your peace sis. you parrot platitudes. pound the slick pavement. dodge steaming dog shit. go to work. go to work. go to work. hide in the bathroom. nobody at work cares about prototaxites. nobody at work cares about suicide. just not the sort of thing coworkers talk about. and you’re super well adjusted. your socks match. you’ve been trying to engage in small talk these days. nobody really asks you anything. you could tell them about how prototaxites lack chitin, so though initially thought to be a fungus, they cannot be classified as such. oh, shut up. clock out. take the subway. stop at the deli for a diet coke. you’ve been having this intrusive thought about firing a gun. you don’t know at who or what. you’re in a field. cold metal and shooting, recoil. affirmations are cool or whatever but guns are better. violence sounds nice. but you would never. you go home. eat ⅔ cup of ice cream, a squirt of whipped cream. crack the window open. light a stick of incense. you sleep with a pillow between your legs, beneath your head, and another to clutch tightly. you sleep better with a partner. perish the thought. the urge fades. desire, extinct.
Chloe Wheeler is a celibate customer service representative with a troubled past. Her writing has been published in Muumuu House, Spectra, Hobart Pulp, Expat Press, among others. She posts on X: @sardine_enjoyer.