regarding the discovery and destruction of identity

[inspired by the queer documentary The Celluloid Closet]

it’s not dissimilar to acceptance    into university; the essays,

the above average bestyoucoulddowithoutadderall gpa

worth it, and you did it. bask. you’ve earned it. Then---

again, the rush of

remembrance. all of my old worries become hollow

caskets for my new ones. i am afraid of everything

you should see    me in public bathrooms.         i s**t

into toilets made of mirrors i still can’t          tell you

what my vulva looks like. coffee filters as paper

for toilets and rolling. the political body is just the body

under scrutiny. am i *allowed* to have an identity? the worst

part is that everyone       around me felt the same way

[who] are you kidding [but] me?   bedroom tour: a figure

disassembled on the mattress-pink vibrator-heat rash-

don’tgettooclose breath      on fire everything    looks

perfect from far away, a villian when the sun sets just so.