They cut it off, but it kept growing back. Like a stubborn hair plucked from your chin that
reappears each week. The first time hurt. I was an infant, and I didn’t know I remembered
until the second time, when a familiar pain shot through my back. I was six then. Mum
gasped when the smooth lump of skin emerged amongst the bubbles of the bath, as if it’d
grown in the five minutes between undressing and entering the water. And maybe it did.
Every time it appeared it was fully formed as if it were always there.
Lovers exclaimed in shock when they wrapped their hands around my naked torso and
brushed their hand against it. Most tried to hide their recoil. Some liked it. One yanked it as if expecting me to squeal like a pig. Sometimes it popped out from above my jeans as I leant
over. Plumber’s crack. I’d tuck it back in and it’d wriggle its way out again. I don’t mind this
little dance. I get it. I like to breathe, too.
What use is a tail? In the animal kingdom, they’re tools for survival. Allowing movement,
warmth, balance. Birds use their tails as brakes, like the back of your rollerblade. Some tails
detach in combat to preserve life. I sometimes wonder if that’s what mine does, in the
moments I scratch my back and my fingers fail to locate it.
Humans have no need for tails. Yet mine comforts me when the darkness creeps in. I squeeze
it as I sleep, a baby on its mother’s thumb. A man cornered me one night as I was leaving
a bar, woozy with alcohol and fumbling for my phone. He slammed me against the wall and
ripped my trousers before retreating at the sight.
Tails are important for defence.
That final line is killer! 😀