I sit here reeling, my phone alight with threats of gratification at my side. Reeling in my experience is an invisible convulse, a humming through the nerves that can’t be satisfied quickly. Like a panic attack but confined to your bloodstream. Capillaries on fire. I waste my time on the app with the mask, yes, well done, you know the one. I lead on and then I delete, but I can’t stop. My body and mind scheme with social subtext so that I can’t take care of myself.

Some weeks I’m fine, I flow, I’m 26 and healing. Others I’m 18 again, a cist of cells ricocheting around my context. I catch the train; I take the stairs. I go to the appointment; I listen to the woes of my friends. The mask is anchored on my face. I get mad at my main character complex.

Tonight I swap the app for the neon sign. I walk in, get my key and towel, go through the motions, head upstairs. I end up in a full room, looking straight ahead. Five minutes later, I’m on my back, but we’re chatting. He tells me he’s Jewish, a comedian from Darwin. He asks for my middle name but continues to talk about himself. We go to Crown, I can’t remember why, and then his car. I forget my delicates in there.

I’m delicate. Not in a sexy, vulnerable way, remember, it’s a capillary furnace in here. The holes in my walls are taped over with grey duct, my heart is held together with PVA and streaming subscriptions.

I go to class where we make multi-dimensional assessments while nodding and noting diversity. I look around to see if anyone else feels like we’re othering some of the very people we ourselves are, but everyone stares at their own MacBook. Cold as ice.

I’m at my uncle’s birthday. I talk about Uni and running, because that’s about all that feels acceptable. Heat rises at my neck. My young cousin shows me her aerobics routine to a song from High School Musical. I cheer her on. We watch video camera tapes of me and my siblings as children. I judge my younger self. I compare him to my sister.

I go to the therapist. They “mmmm” and “yes”; they affirm my struggle. They look at me with empathy and concern, adorned with beaded necklaces and bleached hair. They work from home while their husband plays golf.

I go to a support group. I get smiles and welcomes; I sit in a plastic chair. People share. People click. Meanwhile, I burn. I burn at the experience that is mine and others’, I burn at the badges and the socks and the stockings. I burn at myself for burning. I leave and I don’t swap numbers; I march into the crisp air. I walk up Swanston and I unlock my bike. The headphones are in and the music is loud. For all people know I am a straight boy on a bicycle now. I swerve and I pivot, I push and I glide. I mouth the words and let the tears from the wind go into my hairline. I get home and I burn. I shower and I burn. I get into my single bed and I reel. It’s back, it’s here. My head angles down, I breathe slow.

I wake and I glare. I clear the memes that have surfaced in my family chat. They make light of an existence I’m burning within. My housemate asks how I am; I lie. He moves on.

I go to work. I’m okay with my outfit choice. A kid says, “I don’t mean to offend you, but are you gay?” I tell him it’s none of his business. My heart drops, but less than it did three years ago. My outfit feels shit.

I’m on a date. He smiles and calls my clothes alternative, but I’m wearing a Levi’s shirt and jeans. He tells me he’s looking for “long-term material”; he tells me that he doesn’t like that the pub smells like smoke. We walk out, I think we’re done. We smile to say goodbye, and he pushes his face on mine, tongue first. A woman watches us from the bus stop. We walk around the corner and make out more. It’s purely sexual, I’m not in love. Never have been.

My brother sends me a card while I’m overseas to ask me to be the best man at his wedding. The most honest and pure his words have been in years. I reply with honesty, I say it’s been a tough few years, that I’m sorry we haven’t been closer. I neglect to say that I’ve been burning, ablaze since primary school. That it’s not square peg round hole, it’s just wildfire. Wildfire fuelled by ignorance, ignorance built like strong castle walls. I don’t ask him to knock them down; I accept his proposition. I fulfil the role, just like I have my whole life. I just wonder if anyone can see the flames rising behind my back.