2/17

i have this continual fantasy where i get to wake up in a soft bed in the sunday morning sunshine, knowing its a day off, next to the person i love and who loves me, and it's all white sheets and yellow light
usually deja vu only brings me odds and ends, snippets of future me at work or in conversation, but maybe someday it will bring me a moment like this

i don't want to breathe your dust any more -- and i will count my seven years till every one of my cells has forgotten your touch.

there is nothing in the world other than people. i try to convince myself i will always have a home. chameleons always do. watch me match, watch me play this role. i am wholly capable of disappearing.

so i give myself the gift of your heartbeat pressed under my ear-- the small joys of jealousy and fear-- the satisfaction of navigating someone else's body of trauma. i will always make you cum.

cage me in your chest: cardinals, sparrows, and i beating ourselves against the confines of our own mortality. i can see shadows passing across my gaze. there are only voices and the voiceless in this world. i can sing anywhere, but in my body i secret the tendons and talons required to predate those who would harm what is bright, lithe, fast, healthy in me. i have always deserved to be myself.