Dear Mom,

by Thomas Hobohm

his hopes and fears—of which I knew little—drove me to and fro—worried you—it’s understandable—you say just be yourself—o—but I have no one to be—when I open my mouth—the ice rocks I’ve been crunching come tumbling out—some neighborhood boys—brothers—have stringed their long ropes—over the wooden posts—above the well—of slick stones—lowered their buckets—to hit water—like rosebuds—winking soft air—floating on my tongue—Mom, is the well really real—if it’s never really wet—don’t answer—I’m not done—I want to escape—so desperately—that I climbed the cobblestones—witness me running—through the jungle—of green—meticulous with mystery—cultivated—like a diva—like me—in my floral dress—my three-piece-suit—my sunscreen—Mom, why do we run from the sun—is it a boy?—because trust me—a boy can make you run—and hide—make you jump—and glide—Mom, did you know that my boy is a mirror—when I look in—it’s blank—and moving—and—write it!—writhing—call me crazy—but I butt my head—boom crash—it tinkles—comes crashing down—now witness the pile of shards—still moving—like snakes!

Thomas Hobohm (they/them) is a young writer from Texas. They’re interested in interrogating queer desire and the will to intersubjective knowledge. When they’re not reading or writing, they like to play volleyball or explore independent cinemas around San Francisco. Their Twitter is @thomashobohm and Instagram is @skyferreiraofficial.

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