Masculinity
In the year of our Damnation

I’ve given up on knowing

myself. I wasn’t born anything. I became,

a death wish already enacted—

Not to say I’m dead. Don’t say

what I mean to you.

I’m tired of that.

Maybe it’s enough for the rats

at the gym to recognize my ribs

and yet still pause on pronouns.

Gender me like a criminal,

like I stole it, killed for it, was ruined

to have it. My name is dead? I keep

writing my coming out, never get it right so what

does it matter

what I call myself? Crawl

back to the closet and come out

when you have a word for growing up a shell-called girl,

and busting out a bloody thing you call ‘man’.

At least I’m happy?

I burned the pride and called it rage.

Sometimes my gender is a Revolution

and sometimes it’s the broken barricades but most times it’s the smudges

on mirrors; you only see it when you want to be bothered.

Alright alright, I'll stop asking. I never liked

the answer and I never wanted to go to Texas,

(Florida, Colorado’s club scene)

as if that can shut up the sound it makes:

I felt the gunshots graze my chest on the back deck.

I was bandaged and stiff and free of the weight;

you’ve gotta cut off more than chest to be

human. I wrote this in the spring, and now it’s winter

and shit’s no better, barely different, mostly worse.

I’ve given up on asking if any of it’s painful.

I’m the echo of wherever the world is now.

We’re spinning into a black hole, I think, so call me

back to bed, baby. I’m tired of the doom scroll

and just want warmth.