June

Elected in me

above all else

is the newness you’ve impressed.

The 6th day

to forget you,

to leave no boundaries

liable,

without you,

we board the smallest plane

I’ve ever seen

in my then 18 years.

Domestica destroy.

Brave for a little boy

shrouded in

the clothes of a part-time job,

a blouse I saw my co-worker wear,

the trousers

as queer as I could manage

on £6 an hour,

trying to look

an inch of the liberty you exude.

I think

above all else

that the way I tie my hair up

is to replicate

you

the moment I fell in love with the future.

I’m Sorry

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This is not a human

This is not a human

this is a cacophony
of red and white
pure masculinity
dependent on
the next word,
next movement.

This is not a living experience
it is a historical piece
in all its
lycra garb.
Micromanaged,
idealized.