And You Are? | Sophia Morales

Yesterday my name had 6 letters,
today it has 8, and even a space.
A few hours from now
it will have 12.
When it has 12 I wear leather,
wrap my thighs in straps,
slip between genders, fondle
the balance of taboo.
The catacombs of
Egyptian pharaohs
covered in biography:
for centuries, unchanged.
But in this place, at this hour:
a multiplied sun lit hit,
and I am transfixed
on the prisms of ids.
Who, baby, who?
Unsaddle the psyche
and break through
the trash fence.
Forgo assumed
let the letters slide.
I’ve imploded
and so can you.
Let’s just burn a little
while longer.
It’ll give us a name:
A useless, ambient name.

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