sorry. sometimes, i forget becoming what looks like a son is becoming what looks more like a Black man. i caught my words in a mirror today, watched them buzz and scramble as a bullet tore through the thesis like spilly fingers experimenting with a new compound; Black + Transmasc + Self Love = The Seduction Of A Supernova. if i take your hand to pull you through the loss of a daughter, will you flinch? do you need to savor the grief or do you fear my grip is that of God securing you, so you can be pulled through the muck and faced with my casket. you cannot find my face in the thicket of His shadow before He implodes & a crowd surfaces. now, white queers pour themselves in like oil tempting—no, teasing—water. & hey where is my body? oh & is that my name, the one embedded in their condolences that sounds like a muffled gunshot? if you listen closer, you’ll hear an apology & that is hushed too. so, have it here, like this: sorry, mom. but i’m learning backwards; reborn, then dead.
Jaiden Thompson (they/he) is a young writer walking the line between poetic genius and foolery. They have work published or forthcoming in Jupiter Review, Superfroot, Queerling, All Guts No Glory, and COUNTERCLOCK, among others. They are also an editor for Interstellar Literary Review. Find them on Twitter @jaibird_writes.