CW: gender dysphoria

pace, pace, roll, clack rumble, full moon, full streetlight cut by a nose sharp sharpening,

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i used to smack myself when my fingers misplayed. all my projects asked but please. tell me i’m not the bad that i am. which is why, when maman sees me, twenty-three and learning the skateboard, she knows i’m redoing. like in a story, she says, about a kid whose shoes never fit. your feet, they smile now, head on my mattress.

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like a story about a brother who bounces the wire, lines always loop in my head. as my neck twists, and my foot pumps, a street, a line, align: i look the way i want to, i look the way i want to, which isn’t even really what i mean. not how i look, but how i look out: i hop down from my sockets. i nap in my head. i snore with the roll clack, pace.

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i spent a summer playing an unwilling game. i gave every face glasses, none, long hair, short,  spinning through the slot machine’s every iteration, needing, needing to guarantee i saw everyone the way they would want. at least once. we’re all just haircuts was the line, bouncing. my selfies asked, but please.

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pace, pace, roll, clack rumble, full moon, full light cut by a full cheek, full face, shadows reeling through every possible-- until they lift, leave, leave eyes, eyes, unasking, the rumble.