I learned I was a sinner

before I learned my own name.

Or maybe not before—

It was before I knew

what I liked to wear.

Blue? “Too male.”

Red? “Try pink.”

It fits. “Too tight.”

Feels good. “That’s flesh.”

Now it’s dirty.

Now you are dirty.

Because thoughts aren’t accidents.

They’re stains—

and some never come out.

I learned to bury them and any sullied parts

quickly

No matter how many times it took, I would be born again

This is how I learned to leave my body.

I tried to ignore

the scratching underneath—

the feeling

the raw feeling

at the root

where something was pulled out early.

the feeling

of leaving someone behind