The twist is the thing: a bulb
peeling its own skin back to flaunt
the juiceflesh. Every time I come out
feels like this, like feeding someone my innards,
wedge after crude wedge. I mean really,
it’s like pinching off a part of myself
to nourish some naïve soul, as if
they were an infant. My infant.
Is this not motherly enough? Not female
enough? And how can enough
ever be a metric for being
when nothing is ever enough for them, the ones
who refuse to accept my tantalizing being.
This is the latest news update: I am
and bitter am. I wear the gold crown here. I
am the one giving.
A. Prevett (they/them) is the author of the chapbook Still, No Grace (Madhouse Press, 2021). Their recent poetry has appeared in West Branch, DIAGRAM, and Colorado Review, among other journals. They are pursuing an MFA in poetry from Georgia State University, where they edit the journal New South. You can find them online at aprevett.com or on Twitter under the handle @a_prevett.