My bones are not sculpted with paint brushes or clay
and even though my body is printed with words
I wear them more like bruises, than badges.

I am hollow as I breathe.
A well oiled machine doesn't rattle like I do.
I do not exhale butterflies;
I am not delicate like this
and I am not patient either,
because I'd rather shave my own head
than wait for my hair to grow.

I am held up by my boot straps
(even though I don't wear boot straps,
more like ill fitting clothes
draped over my bones like caution tape)

I feel more like a woman
when I look like a little boy.

Sometimes, I tell myself I am a little boy
who knows how a woman breathes
under the weight of her chest.

I am my God, my Goddess, the only one
willing to hold me up under the weight
of my chest.
For this, I am still blessed.

A sudden southern accent
    A slight northern breeze
        A soft western glance
            A silent eastern call
                              *Cardinal.

Because no matter where I go
my Queen watches over me
                    reminding me of ego
                    as she hangs off her throne
                    for half the year
                    trying not to fall back
                    to Earth

(I was hungry.)*

It didn't go down so easy;
               burned like memories of whiskey
    on Southern nights
                           under the stars.

          Now,
it warms my belly
and I take it with me
                                    wherever I go.

I was part of it,
                         now it is part of me.

god, did i want to be home
         in the home I thought I found
in your crystalline eyes
clouded only by wisdom

                alcohol ******* and ***

where i always sought
                                        comfort
          ­     in your chaos