sunlight limped through shack panes 
breaking against black hair 
hugged by dust stained beads of gasoline 
lip mantle splits and flakes 
like spring onion skins dried and I 
slept in oiled grass that gripped my clothes like honey

he called me that name
it was his way of infantilizing me 
to clog my receptors like 
neurotoxins and daze me 

I remember pebbles locked in concrete rivers digging in my heels 
pronged shadows shift where the wind tugs branches and
chokes my view of the sky, it
dries maroon lipstick on gutters hung above 
jasmine rice complexion skin where the wood grain 
blisters 
lined to windows speckled in dirt with curtain guards colored molasses 
that like our towering oak door chewed and swallowed us

I walk in black leather working shoes tied to my ankles below 2.7 feet of linen pulled over black stumps with shoulders tucked inside a logo t shirt, 
arms slack, wide strides on an 80+ Fahrenheit evening where telephone wire 
heaves breaths between poles and traffic lights
bleed out in the gaze of car lines and I 
wonder if I fell in front of a bus 
would the wind lull my blood coated hair in waves riding past cheekbones 
skinned on asphalt 
will I soak into the road’s black pores like squirrel carcasses
clots hugging my scalp like honey where I’ll sleep
until they peel me off and pave over 
my stains, to smear a fresh white band separating pedal skeletons from gas elephants

I still cook with honey 
it drools over hills of carrots and broccoli seared with dark soy sauce and red cabbage 
lime juice cuts through its body and nibbles at my fingers
an ingredient
not a name anymore

Notes

A follow up poem to Anxiety in Intimacy, both written by Emi. The poem focuses on honey, a word that I’ve come to associate with my past, and with existing language used today. Shortened, it becomes a transphobic slur. I wrote this in partial remembrance of departed trans individuals, who’ve died through more violent means.