I am
soupy mud-lukewarm rain.
I am art rarely born in
***.
belonging.
gender.
identity.
I am
being more hazardous than a
heartthrob, commitments which don’t owe.

I am
seemingly flawed acrobats where
wars and rifts give purest windows into-
I am
diversity, unbiased observation
without opinion

This body is
a cave to personal Aboriginality.
With similar struggles,
this body is
February  funerals
Stumbling drunk
Faulty wires
Silence singing

This body is
masculinity sitting as knobs on my chest. 10 month T shot
showing no faith in God likely hates me like
This Body Is
a two week alcoholic.

I am
some body. A temporary palace worthy of worshipping
past open hours of service,
I am
this breath inside a masterpiece,
losing pace and time of directions.


I am skeletal, with you
growing through rainfalls I want you to learn to dance with me
I am putting on a face
‘pretty’ is a word fit to little girl’s dresses and marmalade eyes
I am
black lightning down her classroom arms.

This feeling is
‘I think I want to wear makeup’ Who I can be Who can I be? Who was I
This feeling is
Who I was.
Bogged down and banking on jawline horizons never seen,
This feeling is
what it is.

This feeling is multiplying
hearts for many individuals.
This body is
I think I’m aro ace all the way.
I am
thought to be nothing more than your constant in a dream.