Reciprocate, the cornerstone,
pile up the keepsakes,
the more refined the technology,
the more Vaudeville the ****** mistakes,
but that doesn't mean I'm immune
to tenderness--I could use some tenderness.
Tenderly now, your words, the soft words,
bring them to me in the sacred hours,
while the apartment complex sleeps deep.
Sing the soft words, your body supine
on the balcony. Stick your little fingers
in my mouth and draw out the side effects.
Project the man I once was back onto me
so that I might sew myself to the outline.
In your perfected feminine way, overestimate
my competence and build a life atop
the old man, the old me, the recurring me.
Warm yourself with thoughts of children,
of silver, of gold, of the roots of human desire
that split the ground and fuse with your feet.

You clawed your way past death
and clipped your fingernails in
that living room of overwhelming beige.
There were two couches that intersected
perpendicularly at the arms,
one for you, one for me.
With the sunlight scattering
through the blinds, we talked
less to each other and more to
the television. In an effort
to get enough sleep before work,
we'd retire to the bedroom.
Our legs would intertwine. Licorice vines.
I'd pleasure myself. You'd pleasure
yourself. I'd sneak your collar bone
a kiss and bury my sweating forehead
in the crook of your neck. Am I soft
enough for you? you'd say.
Time moved in such a labored way,
as each stained the other in an attempt
to stake a claim.
Stay awhile, I'd respond.
If you don't mind, stay awake a little longer.

Some passive form of vengeance
courses through
against taboo, against the denial of touch
and I take it, the vengeance, on someone
needing to be used, to be an object,
to be of use,
and I feel something akin to remorse
and grab a towel and excuse myself
and sink deeper into
this middleplace, where everything
is balanced, the worst parts of me,
the best parts of me,
and I sing--can you believe it?--I sing
a song you know and don't like
in the shower and everything slows
down--by everything I mean the narrative,
the lies I tell myself to still love myself--
and I say it, "Goodbye," before heading out
to meet the sun, to enter a house of worship,
to worship the little god that resides in me,
to pull the strings and watch it all fall into
place.

In the scattered night, down from Trinity Bay,
where the primary schoolers kiss under the docks,
I cup my hands; I gather sand; I drink the sand.
I name every grain, every star. I'm vibrating.
Transforming. I'm floating above myself--this is a
defense mechanism, a necessary one, a beautiful
one. Tonight, I want to live. I want to live all the
time. I want a dark-haired woman to coddle me.
I want a dark-haired woman to kick my ***.
I want a dark-haired woman to wear me thin,
wear the endings of my nerves smooth. Transfigured
salt, transfigured sand, transfigured sky. You may want
to write this down. You may want to record this. I'm going
to breathe myself backward; I'm going to become handsomer,
stronger, younger. I'm full bottle, I'm chime, I'm breeze.
Wait. Listen. You might just delight in me.

I'm losing it, the composure, in living rooms,
surrounded by friends, rooms with multiple
televisions, honey-stacked on top of each other
so the husband can game and the wife can
watch The Office for the hundredth time.
And they talk, with absolute seriousness,
about which Harry Potter house they'd
be in. And they talk love languages.
And they talk enneagrams.

And I notice how I've become the object of their sentences.
And I notice how I'm there to be some fringe prop,
someone to say what they want to say, someone
to project themselves back onto themselves,
without fear of divine punishment.

It was a year that looked good on checks,
at the top of every newspaper: 2013.
I grew thin running laps around Toluca
Lake, thinking the whole time it was a poor substitute
for the ocean. I was employed and in love in
Oklahoma City. I was unemployed and alone
in Tuscumbia, Alabama. Everything was blind.
Everything was deaf, my desire buried in salt
and coffee lingered on my breath. 2013. I'm younger.
I'm stronger. I'm persistent and there's an actual comb in my actual hair.
And I'd pass by you like a jewelry store window, my mind
half a brick. Shatter the modest glass. Mazel tov? Do you know what
that means? What good fortune. Why do they say what good
fortune? It's a compact lesson in reframing. And I frame myself
for ******. And I frame myself on the refrigerator. And I frame
my last check. And I frame my arguments on my back, in a swimming
pool, thinking of Toluca Lake.

My baby's got the weight of the world
carved into her brow and you can see
it for yourself; she cuts her own bangs.

She loves me tall, she loves me thin, she
loves me in what she calls an "Ethiopian way";
you can see it for yourself in the dark corners of
the internet.

She holds the Guinness-certified record for the
highest use of the hashtag "#vegan." I believe
her when she says cheese is the unitary measure
of loneliness. I'm sure you do too.

She used to substitute teach for Cameron Christian.
She'd take selfies with autistic children and some
called her profane and some called her dangerous
but I thought her posts about the effects of vaccinations
made her seem so in touch with the world, so pure in spirit.

And on those slow nights when we're in bed
with the incense hanging above us, between
her considerations of transitioning into a man
and her considerations of starting an alpaca rescue,
I think about how winning the lottery would be
a disappointment.