Calico Frost

the bus driver glared at me

like i was a sin to society;

he called me a fag—under his breath,

and i got in my seat like nothing happened. 

She stands there, 

head held up high

forever staring at the sky

until those men

(with their pitchforks and matches)

tear her down into debris. 

sometimes the dress feels like a soft breath

a quiet hope wrapped in fabric

that touches my skin like a secret i’m afraid to speak aloud

it’s the way light moves when i twirl

the way i feel seen without saying a word

crying over a simple email 

the lasts build a lump in my throat 

last time beaming onstage 

signing yearbooks 

wearing a stiff blue skirt 

I don't

Open at your words

Your touch

I don't

Listen to

Anyone anymore.

I am completely in my head.

I know we don't have time for this mess.

I do it anyway.

I don't

Pay attention.