bloated with clouds and punctuated blue the space, the stage, i’ll listen for you these pockets of perception, i’m known in shattered ways there’s a reward in restraint, i think it’s a fainting art listening really, my brain is all jumbled up all i can speak of is the residue of intention on my tongue

I am scattered and I am dispersing. I have always been my five year old self; engulfed in (!), fixated on (!), and deeply treasuring (!) the new curiosities to be gained from our bedroom television. And she had always been me; a gender abomination and a scientist studying its unexpected amalgamations: the bane of…