Dopamine | by Alex Vigue

my long thumb nail brushing hair off of my temple sounds like roof tiles sliding. stop. the end of one hypochondria created health obsession harkens the beginning of another. stop. I can finally sit down normally but I can’t breathe. stop.

I’m not sure if my sister’s dog is giving me more attention so that I’ll keep her when I move or if she’s trying to warn me about something. stop. my intuition is coughing like the Columbia River Gorge this summer and every summer to come. stop. I’m waiting by the screen for a notification to give me a dopamine or two to spare. stop. little highs to curb the anxiety. stop.

men keep walking too close to me, my mind amplifies their masculine consumption and screams gun. stop. social interactions used to be the reason I stayed away from queer gatherings, now I worry we’ll be the next, next biggest mass shooting, second biggest, third biggest, a faded headline memory, a full stop.

 

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Alex Vigue is a queer poet and storyteller from Ridgefield, Washington. He has a degree in creative writing from Western Washington University and has been published in Vinyl, Maudlin House, and Lockjaw Magazine. His debut chapbook “The Myth of Man” was a finalist for the Floating Bridge Press chapbook competition. He works as a substitute teacher and retail worker all while impressing the importance of poetry on people of all ages.