Bones are party clothes,
and it’s nearing the end of the night.

they’ve worn me down slowly– grinding,
itchy and tight: making the flesh of my heels
hurt, feel like i’ve got these hot, heavy
coals that’re taking their master’s role–
becoming the ones who dig and take
to make their way through all my muscles
& all the way down to the soles of my feet.

this Bone is called the calcaneus,
and god, it makes me wanna take it out,
pretty as it & all its sisters are–
so bright red in a punk way
and a femme and a masc way,
inviting so you’ll press your lips to them
to go ahead and create adam again.

i can make you something new, like him—
something gross and twisted, so unabashedly
trans(sexual)(gressive)(cultural)(itory),
like all things new are bound to be,
blown into reality by sweet, sibling winds.

you could be my own monster amalgamation,
and though you might think you’re living a curse,
bound to eat some plastic apple, i think
your monster self will end up telling me
about how frankenstein is a queer story,
so i can nod & act like it’s new information–

like all creation stories aren’t queer,
and all rebirths aren’t grossly gay,
and i haven’t done both a million times,
and dealt with consequences each time i did.

but i don’t want to be the one to paint my face this time,
so someone else: make me new. i’m stuck being frankenstein &
his monster in one Body alone, and it gets a bit exhausting
playing both parts– rebirthing myself when i sit up in bed,
imagining my sheets as whitewater and myself; as both
the ridge-filled clam shell & sweet venus herself,
and as the monsters of the deep below her.