In a sense I don’t belong – how can someone teeter tottering with asexuality say they belong at a sex party –
And yet, as I soaked in so many queers, lit up with being so iconically Themselves, my golden flesh popped to an illuminated chartreuse.
And yet, as I tongue wrestle with words, both bright and dim, with sucks and bites and laps, I had a thought. An okay thought.
None of us belong. That’s the point. We are all subversions, with heart.
My body, the day after, is stained with a mosaic-pallete: pink dashes, holes, and a purple jaw line, leaving me feeling like a scratched lightbulb.
And I’m content with taking a step closer to a body I can feel at home with.
An interrogation room with a dingle dangling scratched lightbulb, and a table of comforting, potluck foods –
And it has been two years, kinda, four years really –
But, anyway, my sleepy cunt is just my sleepy cunt. I’m also carved-in thighs, branded tummy, a neck long and marred – and a jawline, my very own jawline, with a mythical signature of me