Giant caterpillar sleepover party

Goodbye, dark green dark. Party time. You looked like a caterpillar in your sleeping bag, so we hit you with pillows until you claimed the zipper hit you in the tooth and that’s why you cried. Like a moth in the dark you threatened to walk home and take in your surroundings as you did. Cool off, you cocoon gnasher you. There’s only one road in or out, buddy. We are so brave to hop loops around you laughing. We put on monster masks and chased you into the streets. When you couldn’t hop in your bag you rolled, legs kicking for something to hold struggling on to. You bite, you grow, we chanted. We dragged you back to the basement and stayed up all night yelling our favorite WWF wrestler anthems and flying between dusty basement mattresses, heads cracking the track lights. We caved in the dry wall. We ate everything that looked like a leaf: Bubble Tape, Fruit Roll-Ups, fang after fang of gas station jerky. Why, why did you have to put on porn? We were 14 and when my dad would pick me up the next day, he told me about the video tape he found in the drawer next to my bed. Do I have any questions? Yes: may I stay wrapped up forever with my mouth protruding so that Capri Sun and torn shreds of better snacktime floor remains may be sacrificed to it? May I have newer, weirder landscapes now? You finally fell asleep. Everyone did. You aren’t like other boys, you were worried, I said to myself. Swishing behind my teeth it was a safe and quiet thing to say. You’re too big and like a cylinder. Everyone was asleep then and the TV was a lone tooth poking out of the bottom jaw of a skull no one invited. I am that sometimes. Who will be my girlfriend? Stars beyond the basement grates? The unmoved bikes in the bushes we abandoned temporarily? Girls rolling me between their arms and legs? Girls I roll myself around pressing? Girls pressing girls around me and there’ll always be saxophone and the drone of the almost-sun behind the pricier edges of the suburban woods for rich people only? I wandered to the bathroom in the red dark of the off-over-there Chicago sky vs. the tinted house in the woods windows. It may as well be the end of the world you’re rolling off, you strange boy, I said to me. I’m glad you didn’t hear me. 4 am. 5 am. I’m finally brave. I don’t care, bring them both on. Bring on what comes next. Come on! Jerking off over the sink in the wall molding darkness: You may omit these lines if you wish. You may fill the walls with chocolate cremefilling. You may cut these lines but you’ll have your own manifesto someday. Look in the mirror. Girls? Nothing but lumps against dark lumps. Chocolate ice cream scoops in Coke. Pines tipped over in the embarrassingly sequestered expensive nighttime. Rumbling nostrils of the suburban tomb our parents birthed us in locked. Lock the door. Look in the mirror. There’s a WWF ring covered in blood stains. There’s a silver rocket care and a lone road. There’s a desert. And everything’s so weird and tangled up, and it’s always gonna be. Look down into the sink. It’s a spike mouthed pit monster. The best monsters have no eyes. I’m back.

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