- Are you afraid of shaving? -



You begin dissecting your McDonald’s breakfast meal.

Peeling back the buns, wide.

Slide a hash brown inside to top the beef paddy.

The outer portion of crusted potato already nibbled.

-

Everyone in the carriage is whispering in pairs

About what gender you identify as.

What sex is coiled up under those track pants?

If shaving your leg hairs was forbade by feminism or

What gender you identify as.

-

The rings look pretty on your fingers.

They’d do you well in a fight.

The muscle bulging out from the undercarriage of blemished skin

Is built for show.

We share a scar.

-

Are you also scared of the walkways at night?

Like a woman

Or the plastic surgeon whose patient died under his care.

A neighbourhood mob boss.

-

I think you’ll walk home from the station to kiss your beloved.

I think you’ll catch the bus from the station and list the reasons why you left home at 16.

Mum tried to nurture it with spotlights.

Hydroponic,

Not built for show.

No challenge feels like you’re massaging a dead body,

Not a bruised one.

-

I think Jess saw you swaying under the bus shelter,

Cold in your sleeveless shirt.

I saw you changing after school,

Sweating in the sweltering sun.

I looked away.

-

I’d have dreams of you kissing girls

And then kissing me.

I think you’ll walk home from the station and think about kissing me back

Or dream of shaving your arms and then fighting a pensioner.

They all hold mean lips.

-

The trousers hang off my hips.

I see them grip yours.



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