“I am a rare species, not a stereotype.” ― Ivan E. Coyote
You electrify the pulse in every fingertip just to push away the static of noise telling you how to be.
You squint your pixelated pupils in order to pronounce whatever words fit you in this moment, even if you have never spoke them before. Even if you can barely understand them. What matters is it is you right now.
You put on your glittered denim, hip-hugging pants even though they are several breaths too tight and you wore them when you called yourself something else, but you can still be queer or male or gender variant no matter the size of your zipper.
You decide to channel william s. borroughs’s cut-up method with the language of your parts: for the rest of the day your genitals are housed in your brain and the space between your thighs are your fingers, writing down all your thoughts.
You give yourself permission to linger in front of store windows and blow kisses at the reflection of your blur.
You have no idea what stereotypes are these days. You are a cornucopia of moments.