“Between us we create a circle of something like worship, a ritual of mutual incarnation.” Mykel Johnson from “Butchy femme” in The Persistent Desire: A Femme-Butch Reader
We declaimed those who seemed to own their identities so easily while affirming our own temporary status through amateur gif porn and sunburns in the unlikeliest of places like the bend of your elbow or the middle part running across your scalp. Furiously finding ourselves up against our will, again and again, we realized much later how these proxies for desire—unfolded along an axis of repression and deviance—were sublimated into online conversations and polished stories shared in darkened rooms that no longer play the music we recognize.
I have a memory of you exhaling this is it for me on the back of my neck. It was resurrected as I sat sandwiched between stores filled with cheap shoes, bed fashions, drugs and groceries waiting to take an STI test. In my direct view a poster warned, Don’t think, know. Another flashback holds a detail of strategically opened windows that bragged to your neighbors about our business, which was more carnal than intellectual. Others wane simply as background noise. Some are so intimate they can only be expressed as secrets found in between the way we choose to embody vulnerability and the actual practice of being authentic or the way these specifics are mine to own and tell.
breathing, a song –
a strategy for calm
inevitable after such