I took an inkblot test and saw the hands of a woman fondling my infant penis. There was another of me in a pram, choking on a gobstopper. My tongue swollen, like a plump maggot. The pram and the world outside were drowning in a sea of Middle England sadness. Nothing’s changed. Nothing ever changes. Not really. Did I mention the time I wrote a derogatory remark on the chalkboard in infant school? I didn’t mean to; I mean, I didn’t even know what it meant. The older kids in the playground called me it. I thought it was a compliment. Something cool. I was as wrong as wrong could be. Did I tell you about the girl who sat next to me in class? She let me put my hand up her skirt. She let me do it all the time, and all the time I did it, she encouraged me to go higher until my fingers slid into her panties. I had no idea what I was doing, but the more I did it, the more I realised I wanted to. Her girly bits were wet. Wet not through excitement but fear. We were only five, but what a time to be alive. Sometimes, I leave my body. Other times, I struggle to break free. The best and worst day of my life was when my penis became a cock; a world of pleasure was revealed to me, and yet my innocence was forever lost. How many children have I spunked away into tissues, socks, or across the breasts of a lover who should’ve known better? How many of my children have been cannibalised by a mouth hungry not for food or truth, but rather the desire to feel alive by killing that which was never given a chance? She’s tight, keen, and a vessel for that which is to me unseen. It’s why I love her, even though I go out of my way to hurt her. This inky world of mine, it’s the only thing that makes sense, and yet there’s no sense to it whatsoever.