my mother // freckles, fear, stick-straight hair. my father // a ski jump nose, a hair trigger temper, a yearning for the divine.

I am sick and tired of being judged

I am also sick and tired of my ill-fitting clothes

ache settling deep in the ruins of after

“Don’t worry, sir. You still have time. Gate Six. And thank you for riding Greyhound.”

Still have time? She hadn’t seen him walk yet.

Voice 1: the routine is safe.

Voice 2: this is not the routine.

what feeds us drags its tail behind like a slow leak in the lung.

how the drop is the indicator,
how rainwater wets the runway,

“Punish me because you love me very much.”

my body staged a walkout—the warning light blinking

I am mutant under the right conditions: temperature, pressure, the shadow of a furrowed sky.