rishi_jraman256

I felt the mascara
 run down like broken fountain pens
like trauma we wish to forget—
    but patterns the psyche like bloodstains
    on a white dress

you are like dreamscapes of luxury,
like the wealthy who reap the fruit of inheritance;
conformity that juxtaposes my contrarian eyes–
talk to me of theatre and of inadequacy,
nothing to say—i am your afterthought boy

the room had an atmosphere
of warm queerness on a cold night,
the sky tapered with navy blue and
freckled with the romantic winks of stars.

the repetitive chime of ice cubes,
glasses rolling across the bar table,

he kept her music
locked away in a box
like a false truth.
and he opened it
removed its contents,
like passports in a safe,
but they were 
so much more than that.
stained-glass memories
of a different era

TW: mentions of gender dysphoria

she was called handsome,
complimented on her jawline and height
she feigned a smile
and walked away
with her heart torn apart
and sunken into
the crevices
of her ribs.

I tried to remain neutral
as the microagression dangled
like a match in front of
a pool of gasoline,
anger that could erupt
into exaggerated flames.
Do you think you belong here
more than me