Axel

The first four items at the top are half of a real shopping list I made a few days ago. I didn’t end up buying the Monster because I forgot my ID and the cashier in the Co-op didn’t think I looked 16. I’m literally 19! Anyway, this poem is dedicated to the Co-op, fuck you.

Instagram: @axelh1991

Shopping List

• Grapefruit x2

• Sugar

• Needle and thread

• Monster energy (?)

• It is summer now. I can feel the sun beating down on my clothed back. Freckles materialise across my forehead—a cluster of stars hidden by the fringe I cut myself last week at 4:30 am, with only the sunrise as my witness. My binder sticks to my chest like honey to my fingertips after breakfast. My ribs ache. I press my fingers between them. Wonder if this is what St Sebastian felt like, arching from his crimson blanket whilst the Holy Irene pulled arrows from his body.

• I wonder what Irene thought when she saw him tied to that tree by his wrists, razor wire cutting into his skin. When she saw his face: pain mixed with glorious ecstasy. 

• When she pulled the arrows from his chest he moaned, no longer burdened by their weight. Did she still think him desirable? Holy? A martyr? After everything?

• I’d read you this poem, St Sebastian, but it wouldn’t be in my voice. Not yet. Not now. You were a martyr for religion. I am a martyr for myself.