let's say: there is a howling coyote inside of you, hungry and hollow, waiting to sink its teeth into something alive.
this is a metaphor.
you are alive and you are claustrophobic inside your own body like it keeps you prisoner, like it has you wrapped in chains.
your body is a disappearing act.
your body does not feel right.
your bent, strange body.
not a boy, not a girl, but both and neither sometimes.
somewhere in the middle. somewhere in between.
what are you?
what do you call yourself?
use pronouns like a gun.
hear them cry queer! Queer! QUEER!
the world is graceless and ugly and spits you back to the floor.
suits and dresses and all that talk about gender, sexuality.
what do you call yourself?
let's say: you are called Orlando and you have never looked more ravishing.
this is not a metaphor.
you cut your hair in a dirty bathroom and stare back at the useless dead cells.
your body has never felt more like a home.
masculinity and femininity shifting, going from gas to solid to liquid.
you smile and you turn your name into a lullaby and a curse.
fluid like a river.
softer than cotton, rougher than an oak tree.
androgynous angel.
hear them scream label yourself! Label! LABEL!
what are you?
what do you call yourself?
for now, we'll just say it's Orlando.
YOU ARE READING
your glorious indifference
Poetry[POETRY/PROSE] [an ode to the things that make me want to spit blood and call it poetry] copyright 2019
