Identity

Identity is a comforting blanket.

Here
is my name.
Gender identity.
Sexual orientation.
Birthplace.
Let me tell you how I got this scar.
The last time my heart was broken.

Triangulate enough data points and you’re sure to find me.

Don’t go.
Let me tell you more.
I’d hate
for you to set out on a quest for me and stumble
upon someone else, similar
but with a different aftertaste. See,
this shiny piece of me. Still dripping with blood — 
don’t worry, it’s mine. I kept it
in my chest for safekeeping, tucked under one lung — 
kept it for someone like you.

You can have it, if you want.

Look, how I turn in the light and glisten
with just the right mystery.

No,
don’t speak.
I have more stories. Let me tell you
how my skin was woven, and where I got my eyes.

Yes, you’re fascinating too.
Our stories
would look good together.
Do you see the way your pain
reflects mine in the mirror? What silvery gasping it makes, that strange shock,
like our bodies thought this time, this go around,
there wouldn’t be suffering.

There’s always suffering, dumbass.

I told myself bedtime stories until they were no longer stories, until the stories were truth. But then I couldn’t sleep any longer.