a hopeless kind of reinvention

There are no homes where I am safe
from my own jawline. With every word
I highlight a sharp turn toward
a presumed masculine edge.

I twirl a tuft of hair which plumes
from my thighs, pull them taut,
then release, watch them cling
to my side as a reminder

that the Frankenstein’s monster
I want to make of myself
is at odds with the idea of a living
death, though death alone will do.

I feel as though another name
is calling from the center of my chest,
though my mind may assume that
is a joke I’ll make strangers tell me.

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