Love is a Bag of Tide Pods

My mother doesn’t understand why 

I leave out my clothes on the chair.

I don't want to see it empty and 

think of you. You would sit 

on that chair, rock, manspread, 

and smile. You serpent-tongued liar,

you almost made me feel like a girl. 

Which I am not. I think being a girl 

is all about wearing the right size. 

I don’t like clothes which enclose my skin

and not let me breathe. I need space 

to breathe so don’t come too close. I hope

you find someone who wears the correct

size. Centuries of patriarchy has taught me 

that being tiny is being a girl. 

Fuck that and fuck poetry. I fill that chair

with clothes so that I don’t end up sitting on it. 

I may not have a place in the world,

but I don’t want anyone to take yours. 

I love you and all of your lies. A full chair 

makes me think that you are still around. 

But glass doors shudder and break 

when Truth comes knocking in. 

There is a heap of clothes at the end 

of each week. There is only so much 

a chair can contain. It overflows and 

I overflow; I do my laundry to let it out.

The machine spins and reminds me

of how my clothes would come out 

all clean after an evening of playing 

in the mud. Life is an endless cycle 

of cleaning the debris in our lives

only to get dirty again. All the love

in the world just might be a lie—

And that’s okay as long as I tidy up after—