I pull skin
over my eyes
you are so
my brother is drinking again. i’ve lost all my red flags. i am a girl.
my tongue is a braid. my ovaries have never been rhinestones.
i look like my mother. though, we are not wolves. we have no tricks
of our own. we are rivers of hair. sexless. loosely packed snow.
trying to thumb the lid of a jar without crying.
last year I lived forever
I was the youngest son
I was a thin slice of bees
poured over a lavender field
I was the only person
who knew about the future
last year I didn’t have much space
for the occult
I was the shape of my legs
I was next to the person I love
I learned how to top
tore up the clouds
my groin was an electric hole full of acrylics
last year I imagined
the best pain in my heart
breaking out of the night we met
I was a murmur beneath the blood
you pulled out of my body in long, denim strips
I was cutting up lemons
trying to speak to my father
sweaty but awake
I was trying to say yes
Mud Howard is a white femme, queer trans writer who fiercely believes in the healing power of the selfie. Mud is a graduate of the low-res MFA Program at the IPRC in Portland. Mud is a non-binary-qt currently living in the Bay Area, writing for RADAR Productions and trying to make it through the seasons, one mercury in retrograde at a time.