writing the transgressive female experience

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.


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