Sighing Fruit, Singing Colors

Lascia ch’io pianga

I'm like a beast- other to myself

mia crude sorte

a gendered thing

e che sospiri

and maybe one last breath...

la libertà.

La libertà…

can I be an apple boy

but a cranberry girl?? Citrus

dripping sour

in my words, tampered with hormone sugar…

Could I purge it all with

cucumber and vanilla facemasks,

until

my square jaw and broad shoulders

come squeezing out of my pores?

Lascia ch’io pianga

or maybe that’s the wrong thing to squeeze

mia crude sorte

and instead I should bind my dysphoria away with a tourniquet

e che sospiri

and maybe I’ll be one dimensional,

a plane where acquaintances won’t complain about their comfort,

where I could sing along in

one

monochromatic scale

lacking all of the chiaroscuro that I am.

Or

I could suck a harvest,

apples, cranberries, lemons, raspberries

from the Bible every year,

rip it right out of antiquated pages,

and be even more satisfying

to myself and to humanity.

La libertà.