i never know where to put my knees.
i don’t know i think my thighs have too much gravity whenever i try to lean
a shin against something all i do is push one of us away.
i don’t know where to put my arms,
when we lie in bed i remember having to ask you, to tell you
i really have no spatial awareness
you have to tell me where to put myself
that’s why i always ask
and i remember writing a poem or really just a line
i deserve to take up space
something i would love to internalize
but it’s hard when every time i breathe i remember the
two small turkeys strapped to my chest
i remember how funny i found it when we read that
now it’s just a less trans excuse to chop off my breasts
and maybe then i’ll fit
queer enough queer enough am i queer enough yet
when i was younger i used to fall asleep by picturing assembly line bodies
all the different ways i could be put together all the ways i could be taken apart and
unbroken, fixed, made to fit
and the idea that i was young enough to still become something people want
was so peaceful.
what a way to drift into dreaming.
it’s too late now, i think, i’ve been in the factory too long
i’m wondering if i was discarded half done
like they looked at me and i was too stubborn couldn’t melt the metal of my arms
into the shapes they wanted, tossed me into the heap,
i think this one’s a dud
no one told me what to do when there’s all this want and nowhere to put it
so often i feel my heart reach past my chest,
but that’s just it, isn’t it? i’ve got my very own cage
to keep it locked in.
break my ribs, let me out –
what a cage i keep myself in.