On the Incompatibility of Homosexuals
The first time I laid finger on a man’s abs,
I thought I hit bone—the world excavated
and pried away. Only its depths remain,
blubless and vulnerable, a body’s bare rack,
an illusion of a treasure trove. I expected
to dig deeper before I faced the residues
of his absence, but there we were: hollow
like wily trees, stretched too far sunward
our pinkies could barely touch. I watched
the ridges accordion as he heaved, muscle
isolated and splitting. A body striving to be
lonely because that was the language
it knew: live long so he can prosper. He needs
to prove to God: he worked hard so he could die
late. After sex, he shows me his FitBit,
how he loves the numbers climbing
up his arm like ants. His sweat
cascades down his concave stomach.
For a while, he looked more beautiful
than he is, body bone-sharp and angled,
a life spent whittling oneself away.
Why, I asked, would you starve
and treat it an achievement? The aircon’s whirs
meld with his stomach’s grumbles. I don’t know,
he says, suddenly aware how we were nothing
alike. I had given up appeasing boys and God.
From young, they demanded too much from me
too fast. I could not keep up. All I had left
was an appetite for self-preservation.
So I ate and ate and my stomach grew
and my body deformed
and I continued to live.
Assimilation Pantomb
I’ve grown up here searching for home
in this city teeming with square holes—
certain and cutting, everything molded
by the music of muscled machines.
In this city teeming with square holes,
I unravel my flesh to fit in. I am starved
from the music of muscled machines
side-eyeing me silly till I say: Yes,
I chose to unravel my flesh. I am starved
because I deserve it. My perfect future is
side-eyeing myself silly till I say yes
I will work hard for the shadow I want
because I deserve it. My perfect future is
sweeping its way into all you stand for.
I will work hard for the life I want.
My wrinkles will own this land.
I will sweep away all I have stood on,
a grown-up here searching for home.
My wrinkles will own this land,
certain and cutting.
Everything will be mold.
When I See Myself on the Big Screen
Euphoria of unkempt hair, of flat nose, of small and sleepy eyes;
Euphoria of sleeping early; of learning how rest rests upon my extinguished skeleton;
Euphoria of toying with immortality, of sleeping in and in and in;
Euphoria of knowing I am made up of acid and my assumed angelic purity is an inference
from straight people infected by binary thinking;
Euphoria of waking up from a nightmare where I am stuck in a constantly farting toilet;
Euphoria of putting things together in the mirror to encourage diplomacy: a dress and its
heels, a face and its doll body;
Euphoria of being too much for everyone but actually just enough for me;
Euphoria of exposition, of being lit excellently by sunlight, of being the eye, the camera and
the model all at the same time;
Euphoria of being alone for a hot minute, of a quiet day against the city where laughter leaves
the mouth as homing darts;
Euphoria of enclosure, of a fan that spins above me because I need it to, of being well-
maintained and ill-advised;
Euphoria of memorising curse words from the dictionary so I carry blood bullets in my
tonsils for whenever I need it;
Euphoria of photographic evidence of glow ups, of cheap 1980s eyeshadow looks slayed
again in 2018;
Euphoria of upskilling despite not getting SkillsFuture credit from the government because
I’m not Singaporean enough;
Euphoria of making a Sim named Max and flirting with a random buff man at the gym and
suddenly we’re married and sharing a house with 8 other Sims and it’s actually all
really overwhelming so I start over and start over and start over;
Euphoria of wearing a graduation gown and feeling it billow around my ankles,
of knowing that time onstage is the only time I am allowed to be photographed with a dress;
Euphoria of an Avatar remake where queer children can learn to bend gender, of making
apparent the magic inside us;
Euphoria of justifiably thinking that children are not at all cute but kinda gross, partly out of
necessity so the straights will not label me (or any other gay person they meet on the
street) as a paedophile;
Euphoria of mortality, of endings, of clean slates, of factory resets, of recycling;
Euphoria of sequels, of continuity beyond the last cut.
Max Pasakorn (he/she/they) is the author of creative nonfiction chapbook, A Study in Our Selves (Neon Hemlock Press, 2023). An alumnus of the Sewanee Writers’ Conference, the Lambda Literary Retreat for Emerging LGBTQ+ writers, and Yale-NUS College, Max has previously lived in Singapore, Thailand, and the United States. Max’s writing has won the 2024 swamp pink prize in Nonfiction and the Chestnut Review Stubborn Writers’ Contest in Poetry. Their works are in Split Lip Magazine, SUSPECT Journal, Foglifter Journal, Eunoia Review, and others. Read more at maxpasakorn.works or follow Max on Instagram at @maxpsk_writes.
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