Queer bodies

Lately, I’ve been having a hard time breathing out of my left eyelid.

What does that even mean?

You see, my thoughts seem to be congested,

tricking my senses into believing I can still feel the perfect imperfections of her body.

But I can’t remember what her lips taste like.

I’m not quite sure about tomorrow,

but maybe tonight she’ll show me her body.

God, I want to work on her body —

a body so organic, made of carbon.

What can you tell me about your body?

The last one who slept in my bed silently steals

between the hours of 12 and 6 am.

She removes all the hair from her body

for she is “female” and her left breast tells me to know myself.

I am trying, but I am tired.

When I was 12 years old, a life-sized plastic doll disguised as a housewife mother of two

looked at me with a secret tear in her eye and said this:

“There once was a me, but I had it surgically removed.”

So I think I’ll hang on to my breasts

even though it won’t prove to my family I’m 100% woman.

I know this because of the tears

that poured from my mother’s eyes for 14 days

when she found out I would never marry a man.

And my big brother can’t understand

how I plan to live the rest of my life “without sex.”

He doesn’t know that I’ve felt all there is to feel

with gender-bender tranny bois — they intimidate him.

At least they’ve evolved to fit their bodies.

Never mentioned in The Origin of Species,

I like to think that Darwin would write a sequel if he still resided in San Francisco

or New York or Copenhagen or Berlin.

I just want to be okay today.

Crash into me so that even if it hurts,

I will feel something.

Let our bodies collide so that I can once again feel the perfect imperfections of yours.

And if you refuse, that’s alright.

Just please, tell me what you know about your body.