Eli V. Rahm

AFAB

I  take  an  ibuprofen—swallow the ache birthed in my skull when
you  look  at  me. I’m loud with my desire and all that comes out is
the  smallest  of  sneezes—the  setup  to  a  shitty  pickup  line:  I’m
allergic to beauty.  What is the sky if not purple, pixel, and femme?
I have always been frightened  of women—earthly  and  other.  To
me,  you  reach  the  heavens  even  as they fall—stars imploding as
soon as  we  know  what  to  call  them. Mac Miller calls this divine
feminine.  Sappho  calls  this  grass.  I call it agony in the shape of a
mouth.