The space around my lips rubbed red and raw making fish flakes of skin shows my anxiety with nerves rustling. Being who I am at once with who I’m expected to be. Knowing what I know with no way to perform within the provided coloring book. Those that have been crumpled on the floor I unfurl and clip to the clothes line.

I think I’m in Plato’s cave. Or maybe I’m standing just outside of it peering within and without. Is either place recognizable to the tissue? A wick surrounded by too much wax, like my ears which prevent me from hearing. Those that are called teachers tell me to stay in the lines and color the jelly jars. But no new things were made from here.

–    –    –    –    –

Did you know garlic scapes are toxic to cats? I almost killed mine. She recovered but the garlic did not.

Exorbitant and presumed knowledge of any one thing can make you a snob. Go ask anyone, we’re all aspiring snobs.

I’ve never been good at knowing pop culture. Names, faces, the things they do or who’s married to whom – I have no clue. Ninety percent of the time I won’t get the reference and the memes are always looking down from the ceiling.

–    –    –    –    –

When I cut my hair “too” short I can be mistaken for a man in Guatemala. In my own home, my sexual preferences are questioned and I become unknown. It seems archaic and strange that the length of my hair can create so many questions about unimportant matters. Is this the extent to which our worry carries us?

I’m either a sagger in the chair with my ass at the front of the seat and hands barely touching the table in front of me sloucher or an all the way lean in with the elbows on the table sitting at the edge of my seat type of person. Either way I’m at the edge of my seat, expectantly waiting for revolution.

–    –    –    –    –

I had a dream that we were in love. They were beautiful. Tall, lanky almost, black dress, hair was maybe chin length. Nothing much happened in the dream. I saw them standing before me and then again sitting next to me whispering the softness only heard between lovers. This reminded me of when I was a teenager. I was at some house party where it’s very possible I didn’t even know the person who lived there. I was seventeen and headed towards or maybe through the kitchen, it feels like we’re in a small space together. They look at me and tell me that I’m beautiful. That I look male and female – impossibly adrogynous. Their eyes spoke truth. I had never felt so exquisite. I never saw that person again. Maybe it was a dream as well.

Bozeman, Montana is where I lost my heart.

–    –    –    –    –

The interesting thing about traveling home is that I still call it home. I’ve been gone longer than when I lived there yet I give it the same word as the place I live currently which isn’t even in the same region. I feel at home here but not there. There is where family and my childhood resides and here is where my adulthood resides. My finding me was found here. I did my literal growing up there but my real growing up here.

The western black rhino is extinct.

I slunk into my first home like my favorite shirt, sliding on my frame with the comfort of a lover. While home I spend every second with my parents, attached at the hip may be an understatement. Yesterday we sat on the porch for almost the entirety drinking coffee or tea then water then beer – the type of liquid in our cups marking the time of day and level of heat. Performed a mall walk for exercise since it’s too humid to be outside – ninety-five percent humidity to be exact. I don’t feel like a stranger with my parents but I think I feel estranged from everyone else. Like someone has plucked me into other dimensions where I at once recognize everything to my bones while weeping for the remembered.

–    –    –    –    –

Dorothy, we’re not in Kansas anymore. The storm came, rolling from the north, leaves flipped upside down, my bare feet warmed by the hot pavement where earlier you could have fried an egg, blue to grey to dark, from 90 to 70, my body kissed by air, reprieved from this repressive heat, implicit bias, racing street cars, instead of Kansas I’m here, squinting, all the knowing blood turns in on itself and collapses down like a folding table over and over until the plastic top breaks and metal bends. Compact, you can now stick me in your pocket.

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