some of my memories have crusted over now
they’re just hard enough to swallow whole
without having to taste them
otherwise, they might get stuck in my teeth
everything else I eat tainted with
popcorn kernels and sunflower seeds
some days I feel like that sad boy
melancholic cardboard castles
no one comes in and no one comes out
light a match, it will burn, there’s still a moat
digging my grave into my temporal lobe.
scabbing over synapses with “i promise”
most days I know I’m not that sad boy
drench myself in liquid recollection
so I can bite harder and gargle more
pinch myself in all the right places
so I know someone isn’t sculpting
my ear wax into what I want to hear.
time can be warped with apathy
last year can be a century when I
crumple aluminum foil timelines
tear holes until it’s unrecognizable
I Will Eat Your Sons in Bathrooms
I will eat your sons in bathrooms.
File my teeth into fangs.
Suck blood from strangers in stalls.
I will tear apart their masculinity
with my small hands.
You won’t even have to say goodbye,
I’ll do that for you.
It would be clear if you saw me:
It’s the rock-bottom grain in my voice
Tattooed on facial hair that gives it away
I spray painted the left side of my body
pink, blue, and white just so you
can pick me out of the crowd.
I will make you into a woman.
I will breathe the air
out of your mouth.
That’s how I get my testosterone.
I will melt your manhood
out of your body.
It is going to kill me eventually.
It will carve my insides out
until there is nothing left.
Boil my intestines into fruits,
and you will eat them.
I am the serpent feeding you.
I am here to take away your god.
I thought it would be like writing postcards
to long lost relatives or paper macheing
the shape of my own hands.
I thought this was going to be easy.
You know this is easy.
I can squeeze
lemonade out of your palms
until you forget
what water tastes like.
I can squeeze the life out of your eyes.
splatter the world across my face
pour the earth into my hands
living might mean holding a stake
in one arm and an axe in the other
as long as you get out alive.
your skin used to be made of silicone
soft enough, never pulled back right.
don’t let anyone get too close
they might tear a hole in the roof of your mouth.
beat my back until I bleed out the sun.
you scraped all the stories
out of plastic, but
I still have the memories
I don’t need words to keep me strong,
I wash it down with soap.
now I’m jean jacket, patched sleeves
flowers from cracks in concrete
translucent skin mostly filled in