my body and rib, where I should anoint not as the
weeper at the cross but as the great shining up pack
of suffering spread eagle and crying out to another
father because the greatest lover on earth was born a
man and now he must bleed from every pore at the
ultimate menopausal consummation (please correct me
gently) concerning menopause for my involuntary
improper rhetoric quick correction and desire to be
right)
knowing I never can fully understand and was it ever
just a child not boy’s so
I paint my nails
with the Pink Opaque, nominally
defined to exemplify the unknown.
the Paint a show for girls?
I’m sorry, screaming
“A man with internalized misogyny?
“I’m him”
Ask internal mother.
So I go and look at my pretty eyes in the mirror.
Look.
I can she see himself if nobody else can?
If this is pretending I’m sorry.
The Opposite sex of perception is assumption to
who am I looking at by feminising fear
roost and poet
brown circles,
red in the house of red
just respiring automatically
at let one great before at the choices come back.
Not being correct enough to not want
to kiss her.
‘you put a bow in his hair.Osexualis”
undermining the perceptions that govern
You paint my
nails
just like you wear jean shorts and a Niluajoo t-shirt.
In the prettiness neighbouring and empathy
he wore a princess dress that’s blue and therefore
boyish.
She wore the pink one, they were for our wedding,
there’s no boy without a girl.
I’m playing this music at a frequency girls can
hear.
Can you hear it, from the grass?
avoiding the shot and soccer. Yes.
No?
I, came into your treehouse because I, he, wasn’t like
him.
You carefully held my, painting and hand still.
Smiling at the skirts and telling me to blow.
(So fucking gay to like girls, dude.)
My fingers were pretty and he loved
when the shit got on them because
the wipes too close too
like a boy.
If he’s not like the boy’s, who do you like
to keep gripping my arm?
Chase me, pin me, make me hit.
Asking Google to list (after all the perfume
and makeup): “sensitive and empathy.”
Does she have to be a girl or look into the
Fishes-Price Wells for Boy’s and feel?
I promise I can’t empty Claire is a trick
girls but people who could wear dresses and love
boys/Men and hold hands must have and sing along
to girly pop anthems while still being a rot and
writing minimalist poetry that pours out like fealty
generale before being old if there is any rule value in
this given body besides war podcasts and shame?
Why can’t I love you no matter what club penguins
igloos you wore, make-up less and singular.
Andrew Barber is afraid of being defined, but often acts as a young writer. He has contributed to Iowa Young Writers’ Studio, the Kenyon Young Writers Workshops, the Juniper Institute for Young Writers, and Between the Lines: The International Writing Program. He received full merit scholarships to Juniper Young Writers and Iowa Young Writers’ Studio. He won a grant from the Building Bridges Program Grant Competition and a free iPhone from an unknown email address. Do these credentials validate the work? If you chant his name three times while looking in the mirror after midnight, Andrew will appear.
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