My soul sister with curls and wisdom crunched into dark roots illuminated by crystalline split ends and history of mailboxes all across the country tells me I am androgyny.
Tells me I am not a woman in a tie nor man with long hair; I am somewhere in between.
And we barely know each other even though I can let the sick drip out of my nose right in front of her and she keeps talking and my ears turn into wells, deep enough to capture even her sighs.
And we barely know each other but my soul sister with curls and wisdom crunched into dark roots illuminated by crystalline split ends almost knows what this word means to me.
and then i cut up a dress and removed the feminine/ blue shards of cotton against black taped stage/ and hollow phallus swallowed the remnants until no gender was left to name/ what is left but/ what is left is/ androgyny.
I am having a love affair with tissues. Napkins. Toilet paper. Sleeves. My wrist. Anything to sop up the sick drowning in my nose. And my body reeks Winter. And even with soreness, I can breathe in the goodness of language. To be seen by others as a mirror of how we see ourselves is true fulfillment. I flatten my breasts and burn them back inside my body.
I know there was a time I wished you here…but go back go back go back deep beneath the bones.
A tie is really just a choke of fabric. Fastened conservative. Dapper’d neck.
Hair is just a growth of knots. An arrival of scalp shock. Length has nothing to do with genital affiliation.
My soul sister with curls and wisdom crunched into dark roots illuminated by crystalline split ends tells me that love may last longer when beds belong in separate houses.
& maps are meant to be explored with toes.
& stubbornness should be celebrated when soles are involved.
And we barely know each other but I told her about the time someone circled OTHER on my back because that is what I feel & that is how I see myself & and what if we could all just rebel against the pinkblue revolution and become and become an(other).