Starting Point

I’ve learned over the years that
there is no static soul.
Maybe we chase ourselves.
I may be in the right body
but I feel compelled to keep it lost,
to float above the gender language
the sexed language it speaks so easy.
I may not be exempt
from this dictionary
but I’ve made no other sense of
all the isn’t’s of my skin.
All the you-aren’t’s that my mirror screams.
A reflection that looks like a painting
a body that looks like a sin.
My love a felony
but body’s sex a jail.
We think we think we think
this place is the wrong place
but it’s not the flora, fauna, the wood floors,
the window views, the city smells
that put me in a foreign land.
It’s the muscle and the breast and the covetedness
and fear that bind me in a constant heartbreak
that I can’t look like-
be seen like-
be like-
the right person or the right name or the right self.
With a language of she and he and they
I am not even my name,
my heart, or wants.
To say I’m searching would operate under some belief
that the I of who I am is the hook I want to sink at all,
that the I of who I am is the ship I want to orient.

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