You’ve got a big mouth and a red heart, and that’s why we are running away.  Just a few minutes earlier we walked, arms interlocked, and now we throw them back and forth, urging our legs to go faster.  The day had seemed so calm, and even when The Men approached us, I saw no reason for danger.  But no.  You couldn’t let it go.  You had to say something.  You needed that last word.

Now, they’re giving us many unpleasant ones.  Across the car park, I vault over a shopping cart and watch a runt of the litter crash into it, his legs hailing up to the sun.  But for every dead sperm there’s three more who can swim hard.  We funnel into the narrow alleyway like ejaculate and now we are running towards a pin prick of light.

One follows, but the rest of the shirtless men flank the alley, whooping and jeering, telling us what they want to do to us.  You cackle and shout back that it wouldn’t even touch the sides, boys.  That last word contemptuously oozes from your mouth, like pus from an infected wound.

You’re in front.  Either side, the alley is full of nettles, tall and grasping at this time of year, and I feel them hitting my fists as I pump my arms harder.  White stones streak between us.  Despite your tall heels, you start to pull away from me!?  Getting left behind, I shout out; slow down you fucking antelope!

Author: jimmicampkin

Writer and photographer (and occasional other things) currently living in the North East of England. Everything is my own unless otherwise stated. So blame me.

8 thoughts on “Humid”

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