I’m the fat and enthusiastic girl
who understands queerness
as a way of moving through the mycelium,
between radioactive roots
and underground fireflies.
The window in my room is queer,
the food is queer,
the dreams are queer,
and everything that comes from my mind is queer.
Each day I understand trends less and less—
they seem like empty expressions,
skinny and emotionally worthless.
I won’t minimize my mega-expression
in the face of a frightened heteronormativity
that kills, hides,
destroys, and discards
everything it can’t comprehend.
I’m on the side of forbidden fantasies that don’t harm,
and voluptuous encounters
that echo through every
landscape I’ve seen.
I’m on the side of all bodies.
I’m on the side of the disruptive force
of iridescent colors
and the evocation of the peculiar.
I find no peace
where there’s no risk,
because what I have rides
a carnival of emotion.
Perfection gives me more anxiety
than failure.
There are no hierarchies
in my world of wonders.
I can tell a fairy tale
with fat orgies,
I can turn a national hero into a drag king,
I can sing love songs
where everything happens
the way it does in my life.
My life on the margins.
My shamanic will
for pop rituals
at snack time.
Delicacies.
At the hour of devouring,
the baroqueness of humanity.