‘Trans World’ Is Redundant
My boy accosts the Wendy’s worker who ma’am’d him
through the intercom at the drive through.
I’m a man! he says, you’re a boy! I say, and teen says sorry!
Between suiciding around cis men and playing
dead, I find my footing dissociating into fungus.
Skirt boy’s hot mic monologue with our mix ‘n match
red flags. We both want to be himbo.
But boy forgets that for him I am pure
performance. Produce dom daddy like an infected cicada
ungendering the world’s gains. After dormancy,
fever. I flick wings to lure the sex I crave over a spicy 10–piece.
I’ve forgotten the hunger of believing myself a man
homos stay homos
we’ll kill us each and every one
with our high-risk prognosis
regardless of any masc mandate
for distance or glory
holes or sexy zoom parties
we’re always cruising
and viral when lights flash
wearing tramp stamped tags of cum dump
proud because as long as we don’t flaunt any
crack or pubes we’ll get past social’s filters
remind ourselves how good it feels
to cough down throats spit in both
eyes breathe strange lungs
admit we’re worth finishing
