the bulk of the evidence:
the dust bunnies in the largest eyelid-corners,
the aching deltoids of the early mornings,
the limbic system of deteriorated thread and fragile glass-
suggest a verdict of dancing with customer services and inhaling the fumes of the daily commute,

rather than opening up hearts like delicate, antique quilts.

the discrepancy is not an evident ideology-
it's pulling the plug,
or attempting conversations on transgender rights with dad -

nothing is certain.

thus,
my cellophane heart will backflip,
my shins will swing and splint like
dull firecrackers-

patting backs of mothers who will not see their sons again,
pushing change while kicking up the sharp rocks,
running marathons i will never finish
because
my heart,
a skeleton with a rusted cape,
screeches my least favorite record on an endless loop.