imagine saying:

"thirty five

and the words have
this melodic texture,

where i want to run
fingers down
my face;

touch light leaks and
hazy colors in
grainy satin prints.

breathe in,and:

your tits look bigger,
and it’s not a sneer, there’s not even malice, there, just
confusion in the way i’m wearing girls underwear and
boys clothes, my shirt is riding up because it’s not meant
for chests, it’s designed to fall flat in a way that i am not,
nothing is designed for me, i don’t fit in this world and
this world doesn’t fit me.

sometimes i remember, you know, that there are people
who think i don’t exist, who think i am possessed, 
who say i want to be a man because i am oppressed as a woman,
and the truth, the truth in the way i don’t fit is that i am neither
and i am both, and i am queer and i am here and
the silence makes it hard to fucking breathe
because breathing is a privilege reserved for those
who are considered human.

bodies of water

ocean waves
fold to the format of
capes and bays,

swinging back
to yesterday’s
spilled earl grey.

and in time,
bodies of water
are no different.

nothing keeps
bath water,
ocean waves,
from becoming tea.