what does it mean to be queer? to be questioning?
how can clumsy, nascent words
capture my chemistry?
what does it mean to be me?
what if I’m a collection of contradictions?
what if I lust for the sensation of men’s bodies,
but long for the soothingness of women’s souls?
what if I embrace my short hair and muscled limbs,
but adorn myself in flowers and diamonds, black lace and leather?
what if my voice dips low when I’m seduced or seducing
but floats high when I’m enthused or enthusing?
what if I pride myself on the balance
of black and white, strong and slight
that make up me?
what if, right now, I only want to give my body to one person,
but fantasize about sharing it with others?
can you be sensuously asexual? Because that’s how I feel
late at night,
in the shower,
in the club,
or driving my car,
when my mind runs rampant with
bachata, oh la la, voulez-vous coucher avec moi,
but when it comes down to it —
the pussy really just wanna chill.
What if some days I feel queer, and other days just…here?
[To be continued]