I listen to this lyric & remember us as kings. Your name,

Sir he/him pre-T & oh so pretty

My name,

Sir they/them just tryna make it out of the grocery store

We rhymed our genius on top

of this already-done song as if it needed our goofy

lines about wanting to die. We thought

die synonymous for disappear. To be us

was to be a mirror you can’t see the other side to.

We entered HEB aisles prepared

to be spectacles — I loved this dystopia

with you. On the ride home we laughed like it wasn’t

aftercare for war. When we recap the nights I say

 fuck being kind. What has kindness ever done for us?

you shrug & later whisper death wished in my rectum

I wonder where we go when all of us prematurely perish;

I wonder how it feels to be in a body

that doesn’t need transformation;

to rest breastless in the night sky & feel the skin

of cissy tongue at a time other than darkness.

We rode beats like a bullet

whistling through the quiet of the wind. We retreat

into each other’s mouths like the wind

would dare touch the tremor

in our limited time. My nigga

was not the first or the last or the best example

of a young king gone too soon. Only a memory

I sometimes think lied to me, or didn’t allow us to be

anything other than perceived. I want

to hear this song with new ears unscathed by dangerous

questions. Only dripping with safety we see

in aisle three; loaves plump and ready for feasting.