Faggots

Fairies, faggots, fairies. I believe in fairies, have ever since Peter Pan. Tinker with this, tinker with that. Break the line no matter the cost. The way their wings spread, eagles the size of my thumb—heads platinum blond—or white? The way they live in the pock marked trees—little screech owls that don’t screech but sing musical numbers off Broadway: Wicked, Sweeny Todd, Hair, Hair, Hair!

            If I’ve learned anything, I’ve learned that most people don’t believe in fairies. They never did. The fairies flew around too far outside the sphere of white angels and fat cherubs. Maybe it’s because Fairies are unisex, androgynous the way a hummingbird might be (as they never slow enough to see—to know for sure—amphetamine addicted beauties). There’s no little cherub penis giving it away, no shawls of Toole meant to cover young, prepubescent breasts.

            All fairies come from the Great Fairies of ancient times: Alexander the Great, Sappho, Plato. They, spawn of the greats, mischievous and diabolical, always get their way, unless a nonbeliever sees them sparkle, hears them sing. Faggots, maggots. Strung up by their faux feather wings, tangled in barbed and electric wire. Currents shocking their bodies to convulse like any Cher song from the 80s. All the world is made of faith, and trust, and pixie dust.

Still on the streets at night (so long after reading them into existence) I see them sparkle, stumble. Drunk fairies. Sometimes (most times) I’m one of them, checking my reflection in dark storefront windows, to ensure I’m still shining, to know my wings are beating as fast as they should, as fast as my speeding heart, catching and throwing the yellow lights of street lamps like kisses. Little narcissists we are, fairies, faggots, pouring glitter over ourselves like holy waters.