vulnerability

there are moments in our narrative safe spaces where the facade cracks i thought of safety as masculinity, unquestioned it turns out that the real safe space is a place where i can lay my edges down to rest, unburdened by the idea of who i have to be yes, i am wearing a velvet dress yes, i am still still me

there is a period of time in the sun-dappled afternoon when i can lay my head on her chest, bien contento, and know that tomorrow, this sudden overture will not mean a thing

i am sliding through the cracks where love used to be, searching for the fantastical permanence of 24-hour-wear lip stain between untouched boxes of old high heels and aliases

maybe finding myself is being t4t in the Home Depot, where the lumberyard smells like all of my sawdust daydreams and i would sleep here if i could the concrete floor looks quite comfortable but i must go now, to pick up the slice of my soul that i mistakenly left on her pillow