Nurse My Throat, Won’t You?

You never paid me visit.

Not through the wistful streams that echo in my reverie, nor through the haunting seams of memorabilia. Never a knock on my oak door; whether it were big or small, whether or not a girl in a baby blue dress could fit through.

The sense of your fingers trailing through the paths of my palm never returned, nor did the premonitions you saw in them. Was that a tall tale? Both your return and what you saw my future to be? Not our, because we both know you had a good hand.

You had the ambitions of a mighty King, while I was content with being your docile Jack.

How comforted must I be to feel the ghost of your hand over my neck? It’s cruel—both the action and my need for it. Perverted, I am, to be missing the intimacy of a threat—knowing that it’s all I’d receive from your touch.

You’ve rotted me right to the core, and not even flies dare to whisper against my skin.

All that remains of your presence is the thread you’ve woven through those months, and the infected pricks on my limp body left by your needle. I’m haunted with the grotesque uncertainty of whether or not your absence is guaranteed or temporary. I wouldn’t know how I’d like the coin to land on my lonely palm. At times, I grasp the crook of my neck with it in place of yours, but I can only hold it for so long—unlike you, who never stopped.

If I were to tamper with this purgatory we’ve built ourselves, time would tick at me that I were a fool. Could you hold my hand once more, please? Just as the hour hand passes. Then, I’ll lay you to rest there.

Written by Karma Georgouras.

I’m Karma, and I’m an aspiring playwright and author who desires to encapsulate the nuances and intricacies of queer experiences. As a writer, my intention is to stray away from the over-saturated box of “coming-out” stories and instead explore both the beautiful and grotesque nature of identity.