Mama, I’m sorry.
I went running headfirst into the world without a helmet, groping fistfuls through the long New York nights. I found fairies and fairy dust, mama, and I did it all. The angels were my friends like you told me, mama, but we weren’t written in your scripture. Mama I was scared by the banging, by the knocking at the door so I ran circles round Manhattan and ignored all the warnings pulsating through its monasteries. I studied their stories deeply and drank them like the elixir of a sunken Christ, a man you once prayed to, or prayed for, or prayed from. I drank him. I soaked him up. My heart pumped his poison through the day and I ran great distances with it, mama. I ran through the streets proud to be a sinner. I faced mirrors with the fortitude of one thousand sons, of dozens of men aching with abandon. I turned myself over and folded corners, I flagged passages bright with pontifical warning and threw myself at them, mother, so I’m sorry. I went running with scissors in spite of your pleading, I went sprinting. I skipped right into the moonlight and set us on collision with the night.
Photo by Alexander Popov
kt is a queer poet who lives, breathes, and rollerblades in Chicago. They enjoy Katharine Hepburn movies, baking bread, and collecting cassette tapes. Their work has been published in the Minetta Review, Que Sera, and the Rainbow Book Fair Queer Salon anthologies of 2016 and 2017.