It was the sofa.
It was the night I hit my boyfriend in the face.
It was all the dishes I broke, that I broke while sobbing and in between screams.
It was the helplessness that trembled in tips of my fingers as I tried to make a budget, realizing there wasn’t enough income to budget.
It was wanting to pay the bills and not being able to.
It was my jawline and the hair I thought necessary to soften it, unnecessary now.
And the pitch of my voice, it’s quality
all my fear that I’d be found out, my knees width apart, my propensity to take up space
the need to run
the quiet that fills one’s social life when people find you intimidating and emotionally volatile
stuffing in the middle of the night just for the hell of it
the song that shimmers when the right kind of boy wanders into my web, my gaze
all my fear that I’ll be found out, the undesire to explain
the ease of the arrow against my cheek
my mom said quite seriously that I couldn’t be a tomboy
because I didn’t have a penis
breasts that wont conform to masculine of center vests
pubescent relief that I pass as a girl, crossing my legs and fingers relishing in the hope that no one will ever find out, I won’t be discovered in this disguise that can’t be peeled off
yet all my hatred and thirst to kill
the prayers I pray to Trinity
the emasculated destitution my physicianself must save us from
every girl I didn’t kiss
every boy I didn’t fuck
the height her laugh would soar when I was funny
the depth her eyes would take on
when I was serious
and the silence embedded in every snowflake
how many rounds of emo can I drink
nice guy virgin feminist lesbian princesso
it was dance and dances
shocking pink dress lies and belies
the sofa emblematic of my midlife crisis come to soon
his gentle questions that brush the edge of rage
of prisonerhood and suppression
It’s not that I’m confused
I’ve just failed
It was my failure as a woman and a man.