‘Trans World’ Is Redundant
My boy accosts the Wendy’s worker who ma’am’d him
through the intercom at the drive through.
I’m a man! he says, you’re a boy! I say, and teen says sorry!
Between suiciding around cis men and playing
dead, I find my footing dissociating into fungus.
Skirt boy’s hot mic monologue with our mix ‘n match
red flags. We both want to be himbo.
But boy forgets that for him I am pure
performance. Produce dom daddy like an infected cicada
ungendering the world’s gains. After dormancy,
fever. I flick wings to lure the sex I crave over a spicy 10–piece.
I’ve forgotten the hunger of believing myself a man
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