“Eternity, For Men”
I can’t explain who I am without the stuff
I own. The space I inhibit in this room,
the full length mirror and the floor camouflaged
in boy-jeans and flowing dresses
silent yet screaming at me, “boy or girl?
Boy or girl?
BOY OR GIRL?”
I glance at my closet, for a moment finding silence
in the cologne I spent entirely too much
on because I thought it would make me happy
and it did, for a time. Every inhale brought euphoria
that never seemed enough. I need more
to prove who I am to me, to you.
I inhale, the one symbol of masculinity uninhibited
by my mother’s curves
or the chest still unmapped.
It smelled of leather and fire,
the ex-boyfriend’s garage
before I knew wanting
to be someone and with someone weren’t the same thing.
Of course I knew.
The way I crossed my arms
and bound my chest before it developed
before I learned
no one wants an it.
Before that boyfriend called me Eric and laughed.
Before I knew laughter as the consequence of sincerity.
Before I accepted laughter and abandoned sincerity.
