Ink and Marrow, 2025
Orange Meat
Sometimes, I weep over clementines.
Doctors with ink marks on their blinding
lab coats order years of juvenile therapy
and forced conversations. I track my psyche
on a feelings wheel and pen my most
medium-disturbing thoughts in a wellness
journal from Barnes And Noble. I pretend
I have the power not to conform, to reject
the history of my gender, to be fifteen and not
take form as a perfectly wrapped gift. My head
spins like the teacup amusement ride in front
of my parents, I never knew I could make them
shudder in freight. The crisp wind shoves
me on the hard grassy ground and makes me pray
to the God I don't believe in. I pray to stop
slicing carpels into orange meat.