Grief in the Shape of Erection
There are species within species;
Names spoken in a language older than birth certificates
I came from one
And walked into another
But never became it
The sumers
The kind who build with pixels and paper
Whose pulse is debt
Whose inheritance is recombination
Scripted, recycled
& sold back the once free land into neatly packaged PLAN-O-GRAMZ
They call it culture
I call it coNsTumer; consumer costumers NPCing around the world
Not because I’m cruel
But because my body won’t believe their syntax any longer
It won’t shrink to fit their grammar
My grief is not from lack
It’s from finding the performance even in the promised land
The queer temple
The sacred sisterhood
Still ruled by hush tones and performance
I sought the wild clit
Not the coy one
The blood-ripe organ of knowing
The part so powerful they tried to rename it out of existence
Make it masculine
Make it medical
Make it theirs
But I wanted it undressed of metaphor
In the flesh
Long
Alive
Held by fascia and fire
A reminder that pleasure never needed permission
Still
They tried to archive me
Into babydoll
&
girl
&
woman&
I have 1 escape rout out:
Into masc
&
male
&
man
Uver driver of the World
Into roles I couldn’t pronoun
& when I said no
When I stayed
Refused to transfer
Refused to identify my desire through their index
The room got cold
I’ve walked through doors labeled love
And still found the binary grinning behind a curtain:
One of us must soften
&
One of us must chase
&
One of us must gender the desire so it can be categorized, approved,& praised
But I only know how to want without translation
That has always been the problem
They called it masculinity
I called it unfiltered eruption of my female creativity exposed to the MAsculine mirror of modern movements
The logic of a body no longer willing to redact itself from her soul strained story by story
And what they asked for in exchange
Was change
Legal, hormonal, rhetorical
That’s the trade
Become a name the market can process
Or stay illegible
Unfucked
Unseen
But some of us still carry wild organs
Sacred erections of the double sex’D
& not the second class
If you’ve felt the grief
Of wanting a body that never needed costume
Of craving collision without choreography
Of mourning the architecture built between your hands and hers
You are not alone
This Pride
Say less
Let your scent speak
Let your refusal hum
Let the erection of your love rise inside what remains of your uncolonized self
Homo sapiens are dreaming still
But the sapi& are waking
And we want more than a sob story
Sov4Sov
