Justin Holliday
Pacman Is a Symptom of My Repression
Every Friday night I don a hair bow
and apply cotton candy-flavored lipstick.
For the rest of the weekend
I can be Ms. Pacman.
When I eat the dots, I tell myself
they’re only mints to freshen my breath.
No one has kissed me yet,
but I’m always ready.
The fruit is my comfort food.
I’ve learned an extra banana here and there
will let me live a little longer.
Back in the 90s, I went to a seminar
where we discussed gender fluidity.
More like gender fucking, I thought
I said to myself, but it was during a lull
in the conversation. I blushed,
but someone told the group
it didn’t matter what was between your legs.
So I said, Hell, I don’t even have legs.
When no one laughed, I rolled out of my seat
and out the door, unsure what went wrong.
Since I’ve been online,
my life has become a reality show.
Someone always wants to watch me
gorge myself as I run for my life.
Still, I have a few moments away
from the chase. I’ve been on some chat rooms,
and they’ve given me the confidence
to kill myself—at least Pacman.
So one Monday I didn’t show up.
Some kids kept clicking refresh
on their browsers, hipsters kept on
inserting quarters at arcades,
but all they saw was my pouty lips
blowing kisses. As the chase began,
I swore to myself
no more pretending I’d meet
the Pacman of my dreams,
no baby would drop from the sky.
When Pinky cornered me,
I spoke to her for the first time.
We’re sisters. We have to overturn
the patriarchal machine.
She said my voice was too husky
and swallowed me
as if my death did not mean hers.
Every Friday night I don a hair bow
and apply cotton candy-flavored lipstick.
For the rest of the weekend
I can be Ms. Pacman.
When I eat the dots, I tell myself
they’re only mints to freshen my breath.
No one has kissed me yet,
but I’m always ready.
The fruit is my comfort food.
I’ve learned an extra banana here and there
will let me live a little longer.
Back in the 90s, I went to a seminar
where we discussed gender fluidity.
More like gender fucking, I thought
I said to myself, but it was during a lull
in the conversation. I blushed,
but someone told the group
it didn’t matter what was between your legs.
So I said, Hell, I don’t even have legs.
When no one laughed, I rolled out of my seat
and out the door, unsure what went wrong.
Since I’ve been online,
my life has become a reality show.
Someone always wants to watch me
gorge myself as I run for my life.
Still, I have a few moments away
from the chase. I’ve been on some chat rooms,
and they’ve given me the confidence
to kill myself—at least Pacman.
So one Monday I didn’t show up.
Some kids kept clicking refresh
on their browsers, hipsters kept on
inserting quarters at arcades,
but all they saw was my pouty lips
blowing kisses. As the chase began,
I swore to myself
no more pretending I’d meet
the Pacman of my dreams,
no baby would drop from the sky.
When Pinky cornered me,
I spoke to her for the first time.
We’re sisters. We have to overturn
the patriarchal machine.
She said my voice was too husky
and swallowed me
as if my death did not mean hers.
Justin Holliday is a poet and teacher. His work has also appeared in Sanitarium, Glitterwolf, Up the Staircase, and elsewhere.