Back pressed to the classroom wall- warm air and cool brick, window into the room filled with
library books.
Fishbowl windows, eyes into the soul- I cannot imagine a world in which I am not struggling to
understand
the notes, the ideas, myself
a way in which I can articulate something without feeling
peckish.
Long conversation on queer representation,
rhetoric class, topics of
debility.
queerness as a political stance,
as a platter of biscuits and gravy,
down home, unrelated, disconnected from southern comfort,
as a thing to be turned over in our hands like a
bug underneath a rock, skittering away but we’re not the one’s looking.
Scratched phone number, scribbled in blue pen on torn out notebook paper,
(soon to be?) deadname on the top because I don’t know how to stop using it-
as a safety blanket, soother, saucepan, space for the part of me that is family-friendly and filled
with
self-hatred.
“I think it’s so important because I’m not out fully to my family”,
even though I’ve known about him for 3 years,
but I’ve known about myself longer.
Queer (not gay) representation, movies described as “egg-cracking”,
cracking the shell that I have built for myself but am
fooling no one.
Omelet with sour cream and chives, chips crumbled on top, perfect crunch,
chicken-shit, courage-less, coughing up words
that will tumble onto the page then become locked away.
Fish-lipped, gutter mouthed, choking on blood but not spitting it out-
a symptom of my bravery (the complete lack thereof).
Cold sweat
tucked away into my shirt,
bottled up and sold as something that you want.
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