Johnson 1 All of Me: An Examination of Queer and Neurodivergent Poetry Johnson 2 Introduction Poetry is a critical form of expression. It allows those from different viewpoints, cultures, experiences, and communities to share an artistic metaphor for the struggles that they face and allow for visibility, understanding, growth and healing for those hurdles. Two groups this is especially true for are the LGBTQIA+ and mental health communities. We have seen poets like Allen Ginsberg, Jack Kerouac, Sylvia Plath, and John Keats championing and representing these communities through poetry. A community that we do not see many emerging poets for is the neuroqueer community, where neurodivergence and LGBTQIA+ intersect. Justine Egner argues that disabled people with mental disabilities are often not allowed to express their gender identities and are often de-gendered and de-sexualized by the media and the general public. They further say, “Neuro-queering is a rejection of able-hetero assimilation and counteridentification in favor of disidentification” (Egner 124). It is more than just the combination of two communities, but a comment on society and how they do not fit their norms. Because neuroqueers are outsiders of “normal society,” there are understandably a number of obstacles that they face, especially on the front of being accepted by the writing community. Savarese states that there is a long-held belief that people on the spectrum cannot grasp metaphor or are too baffled by social situations to make use of poetry. But this is not the case. Savarese argues that they have “sensitivity to figurative language and keen theory of mind” (Savarese 2). Jurecic is also aware that people on the spectrum struggle with not being accepted by society and pointed out that they have heard the word autistic being used as an insult. They argue that a large part of that is “prejudice fueled by a profound discomfort with and fear of neurological difference” (Jurecic 422). Johnson 3 Despite these difficulties, there are numerous neurodivergent poets emerging, some of which I examined to support this essay. Since there are so many obstacles that neurodivergent people face to be accepted by the writing community, it is not surprising that there is a lack of focus on neuroqueer, as those on the spectrum are mainly vying to be considered as able-bodied and legitimate poets and writers. Neuroqueer literature needs just as much inclusion as the neurodivergent community is seeking. A deeper examination of the works of LGBTQIA+ and neurodivergent groups, allows for a better understanding to interpret and write for either community, and observe possible ways to combine them to effectively write neuroqueer poetry. I read and analyzed LGBTQIA+ and neurodivergent poetry, examined their craft and form, then compared their similarities and differences. I’ve studied a small sample size of current poets to study and analyze for any patterns I noticed between their works. From the LGBTQIA+ community, I studied the works of poets such as Tommy Pico, Danez Smith, Ocean Vuong and others. From the neurodivergent community, I read the works of poets like Hannah Emerson, Adam Wolfond, Nathan Spoon, and others. As writers, there can be times where we forget to interact with others’ works. By consciously placing our works in direct conversation with others, we further our creative process and build discussion amongst the creative writing community. Through my research, I also found inspiration through Sarah J. Sloat’s works, as I explored experimental poetry that could symbolically showcase how neurodivergent and queer individuals go against traditional societal expectations. Through inspiration from these poets, I created poetry that experiments with and communicates with the poetry explored in this paper, in order to provide important poetry for the neuroqueer community. I. Structure Johnson 4 For the LGBTQIA+ community, the preference of form widely varies. Chapbooks like Nature Poem by Tommy Pico have a more simplistic structure, and Pico even wrote “I wd [sic] give a wedgie to a sacred mountain and gladly piss on the grass of the park of poetic form” (Pico 50). Don’t Call Us Dead by Danez Smith uses more experimental structure to convey the poet’s message. Here is an excerpt from his poem “blood hangover”: if there’s a cure for this i want it if there’s a remedy i’ll run all the time let it out ‘cause i’ve got the sweetest hangover (Smith 60). The structure is haphazard and has no clear pattern, lending to the manic feeling of the poem. The structure seems to vary from poem to poem, but ultimately it seems more up to the author's personal preference for queer poets. Neurodivergent poets show a preference for experimental and patterned structures. Savarese pointed out that people on the spectrum love the non-semantic components of poetry, as they find patterns pleasing. The Wanting Way by Adam Wolfond is a great example of a chapbook that experimented with many different structures, such as trying to create waves, ribbon, and other interesting shapes and separation throughout. Here is an excerpt of his poem “Owls Easy on the Way of Language”: You are amazing old owl that thinks Johnson 5 easily and flies in the boisterous night languaging the way rapine in the apprehending night (Wolfond 81). This pattern repeats throughout this poem. Using a staircase pattern, Wolfond achieves something that is evocative of an owl’s wing or an owl descending to the earth. Both structures allow the poets to tell their poems through structure as well as words. Tea Gerbeza, a queer, neurodivergent writer, experimented with structure in ways that reminded me of both strategies. In her book, How I Bend Into More, her poems showcased a wide variety structure, some patterned and others sporadic. Based on the research I have done, I created two poems with an emphasis on structure. One is more experimental, while the other has a uniform pattern in its structure. With a more centered focus on structure for these poems, it allowed me to convey the message of the poetry in ways new and unique to me. Johnson 6 Beneath Skin and Sinew The pull of my being is a tide Flowing in defective-desire And grasping at fibers of Ambitious excess. i Suck in the foam and mix The fluids-of-salt tasting the Rod and the cavern. equal And different gratified By the spore sewn into My veins with ice and Venom. strip away the Vulgar rags fastened by Hand to rib cage. glide Palm to center and Grasp. my. life. force. Summoned. from. core. Pause to view the trickle of me Given without restrictions Not dragged to worm or Crevice. drawn to Intangible Immortal To what we crave Hand clutches Hair Mouth brushes Brow Soul touching Soul Sky falling farther Johnson 7 Rhythm Pacing is not for anxiety marches. My grappled hooks rip melancholy thoughts from the heavens, a portal to my head, visions of cold danger, full of crisp possibility. Tapping is not for nervous waiting. We drum into soft tissue. The blast of cymbals destroy meaning. Notes are buried in the buzz of static sound. Touching is not for worried ticks. Deeper concentration bathes all of me in bright rampant energy, electric sensory siphoned into tight calloused thought. Stuttering is not for scared language. It’s the lost voyage across ill-informed sea. It’s a journey of sailors in search of sirens. Rutters spin, but the sails are torched. Laughing is for frightened agreement. The cruel mask. Horns. Violent red. Vile Monster. Predator views the mirror, but blue void stares back. Blood trails the path tears fell. Johnson 8 In Beneath Skin and Sinew, I created a pattern to mimic a wave in the ocean. The structure helps showcase the uniformity and chaotic nature of the sea. For Rhythm, I took a more ambitious approach with the structure. It can be read across, as well as by stanza. There is also a specific pattern that I attempted to create. This helped show the importance of day-to-day structure to neurodivergent individuals. The tics or quirks experienced inside the poem are better managed by being contained in a pattern. Through both of these poems, the structure plays a large part in telling the narratives contained within. II. Word Choice When addressing societal issues, the LGBTQIA+ poets I studied seemed to lean toward a blunt approach, with a high level of cunning, as well as never shying away from the hard topics. I have found that they rarely are abstract or leave room for interpretation. Generally, they have a message and want it heard. A great example is Danez Smith’s poem, “a note on the phone app that tells me how far I am from other men’s mouths.” Lines like, “men of every tribe mark their doors in blood / No Fats, No Fems, No Blacks, Sorry, Just A Preference :)” (Smith 32) allow the poem to be explicit in its message about the difficulties of dating in the LGBTQIA+ community. Whereas, most neurodivergent poets preferred a subdued approach, filled with metaphor and alluding, or not addressing their obstacles at all. Wolfond’s poem, “The Ripples Are Ongoing Acts,” compares humans to being small bits of water, making ripples in a lake. This analogy shows a desire for humanity to learn to use our ripples to affect others so that being human doesn’t mean feeling small anymore. It is subdued and does not blatantly ask for this, let alone reference this in terms of his autism. In Hannah Emerson’s poem, “The Beautiful Beautiful Beautiful Dreaming Beast”, she writes “become the bridge / between the worlds / that are hard to be / sitting in but that is / autism that is the great / great great making / of the ground” (Emerson, 32). Only through reading the whole poem do we gather that Emerson is inviting her readers to Johnson 9 be willing to understand and connect with those that have autism, even if it’s hard. Similarly, I created two poems, but decided to swap the content. I wrote a poem about struggling with societal expectations and bodily reactions, but being very blunt and clear with the message. I also wrote a poem about my bi-sexuality using a more subtle and abstract approach. Johnson 10 Inner Mechanisms when I’m told to sit still for a picture, my soul vibrates like hummingbird wings, thrums against the container, my body will learn to settle when I’m told to communicate, my brain springs forward, a greyhound faster than its destination, words fall out before I know what I want to say my instincts will learn to think ahead when I’m told to calm down, my emotions collide into brilliant hues, turquoise, chartreuse, burgundy, violet, cosmic energy erupts in my soul, my heart will learn to bury them when I’m told to get some sleep, my connective tissue stirs, signals stream through every fiber as images coalesce behind my eyelids and interrupt my core which points out every discrepancy between us and them, we and they, inside and out, I used to sleepwalk, until I fell. groggy eyes view the stairs and my Damaged white plaster. is it concussion that leads back to sick sweet slumber? Johnson 11 The Sin of Being Bi Reach to the tree and pull out the crimson fruit it twists in my hand, pulsates, squirms. Bring to lips, only to thrust forward. Fruit descends, glares of distrust. Hand slapped, led away. Arms pulled, separate directions. Split in half, one takes the preferred route. Spun in laundromat, my colors fade. Bright tangerine sweater, wraps tightly around wrists. Pulls and pulls, but I fall back in. Floods of sunflower, suffocating positivity. Chest shrinks, cannot expand. Resistance falls against expectation. Hyperventilate with no lungs. Back to the tree. Feel the trunk, ridged defects formed by time. Jade leaves cover broken underbelly. Grasp a handful, seal in an envelope. Send them to the first betrayer. Eyes sting, submerged in soap. Rinse out my insides, as owner plucks out the filth. Bleach the liver, stomach, spine. Owner frowns, as I fall back to the cobalt slurry. Memory fades. Care for little other than Self. Pulls the plug on coagulated anxiety. Watch the indigo sludge drain. Overcome the narrative, Johnson 12 embrace the person. Amethyst orchids blossom. Fruit taken. Bring to lips, drain the color. Johnson 13 In Inner Mechanisms, I was able to clearly explain what I experience as a neurodivergent individual. Though it does contain metaphor and simile, the comparison gives a basis to ground what is addressed. Regardless, there isn’t room for confusion as it bluntly states what is occurring. For The Sin of Being Bi, the wording is largely abstract as I attempted to explore the struggle of expectations to conform while being queer. In order to gain a sense of what is being addressed, it requires deeper reading and gives multiple possibilities or interpretations. Both achieve something unique as they utilize opposite tactics to communicate their messages. III. Individual and Community Neurodivergent authors, in one way or another, are almost always the subject of their poetry. Other people or characters were rarely mentioned, and those outside of blood relation were never mentioned, other than when the poet addressed their audience that was not neurodivergent in general terms. In this way, it creates a narrative of “me vs. the world.” Walsh wrote, “Am I invisible to you / Because I don’t understand your tone of voice / Or the things you do with your face and body” (Walsh 1-4). This demonstrates the idea that, even though there are others who understand, the vast majority of people are unaccepting of his neurodivergence. While there are similarities in the LGBTQIA+ of fighting against those that deem their queerness illegal, unnatural, or unholy, there are other characters within their stories. They list specific people, blood relative and otherwise, that have impacted them for better or for worse. In terms of plot, they reference specific experiences with specific people, rather than giving a generalized example. And again, this ranges from poem to poem and poet to poet, but this creates a narrative of “us vs. them,” especially since they mention other LGBTQIA+ people throughout. Pico writes, “I’m telling YOU all about ME / In order to prove OUR intelligence, OUR right to live” (Pico 16). Another collection I found interesting was that of Dana Henry Johnson 14 Martin, a mental-health advocate and queer poet. In Martin’s collection, we also see a strong mentality of “us vs. them,” as every poem either has the word “we,” “they” or sometimes both included, often multiple times. In a poem called, “Urban Decay,” Martin writes, “They have us pretend to be men. / They pretend to be lesbians. / Our roles are unofficial but punishable. / They call us fascists. / We call them optimal. / Both sides desert the city” (Martin 15). This portrays a strong sense of togetherness, as well as opposition, and allows Martin to invite the reader to join the “we” and recognize the “they” as the antagonist of the collection. I decided to write two poems, swapping these narratives I discovered. I used the “we vs. they” mentality for a neurodivergent-inspired poem and the “me vs. them” mentality for a LGBTQIA+-inspired poem. Johnson 15 4:41 A.M. …I wake in the morning and I step outside And I take a deep breath and I get real high And I scream from the top of my lungs “What’s going on?” -4 Non Blondes The child stirs from slumber drawing thoughts from looped typing and failed collective, pieced together in strands of forgotten echoes. Breastmilk thaws from dormancy, the cycle anew. Contemplate calloused hands and feet, like split sidewalks like textured walnut shells like cracked glass. Mind pirouettes between alertness and exhaustion, as hungry suckle drones through reality. Placed back in order, the stoic night is approached on back porch. Sucking the dreamstick, the earth fades, a fog. They try to trap us, but we escape. Contemplate this cycle, swell into a ripe watermelon clutch the bottom of a hot air balloon body swirls into separated ions, crayons melt down the barrier that contains the ghost who hides the fabric of us. To seek the comfort of weighted blankets and heedless snores. Johnson 16 Coming Out Insides tear, spill. Pulses throb gut. Shaky hand clutches face. Knuckles white, veins strain. Vision blurry, tears or dilation? Stomach churns as bourbon penetrates digestive system. “What were you thinking?” Vomit swallow, shallow breath. Brain pounds, breaks the conscious. Thrum, thrum, thrum. Knee vibrates, heel bounces. Calves tighten, bribe focus. Neck tenses, shoulders strain. Quick inhales, shaky exhale. “You won’t be able to get a job. You’re risking your family’s livelihood.” Eye ducts violate. Fluids stream, mix, suffocate. Foreign wail erupts mouth, fucks eardrums. Fingernails dig. Release, clarity, drenched fog. Numb adrenaline, spiral instinct. “Why do you think that? Satan is deceiving you.” Emotions deluge. Control forsaken, time irrelevant. Phlegm. Chest falters, clutch emptiness. Finger scalp, push skin. Tired, achy, drained, sleep. “You’re not really Bi if you have a wife. Just take down the post.” Johnson 17 In 4:41 A.M., it begins with mentioning another person. The poem continues to talk about the parent and child being against “them.” It explores the difficulty of falling back asleep as the neurodivergent mind “wakes up.” I like what this poem achieves. Though the undertone is of losing sleep, the primary focus is of parent and child pondering the cycle of life. For Coming Out, the focus is on me vs them. The bodiless voices that appear through the poem don’t have a name and could be seen as one person or a collective. This ambiguousness provides full focus on the experience and reaction of the “me” in this poem as the “they” weighs in. I enjoy how it’s able to capture the feeling of being alone, as before many LGBTQIA+ members find their “tribe,” that feeling can be very palpable. IV. Ethereal and Grounded While it varied, LGBTQIA+ poetry seemed to be very grounded. Even poets like Danez Smith, who occasionally used poetry in an abstract or ethereal way, would ground it by addressing a serious topic. For the neurodivergent community, there was almost a fantastical element. They had beautiful ways of describing the world around them. In direct comparison it seemed, not that the LGBTQIA+ community wrote exclusively from a negative or neutral stance, but that the neurodivergent individuals often wrote from a place of joy or hope, that the issues the world brought could be overcome. In “The Reason You Became Human”, Emerson writes that the reason we become human is to “dance dance dance” (Emerson 67). In Ocean Vuong’s book, Night Sky with Exit Wounds, there are some moments of happiness and elation, but the pain is at the forefront as the poems relate to the experiences of a queer immigrant. “back to ’68. Ha Long Bay: the sky replaced / with fire, the sky only the dead / look up to, may it reach the grandfather fucking / the pregnant farmgirl in the back of hir army jeep” (Vuong 27). The poems Johnson 18 I wrote swap the narrative as the neurodivergent one focuses on the negatives of the symptoms experienced, while the LGBTQIA+ poem is ethereal and fulfilling. Johnson 19 A Home for Mice they run between layers of my skin, force tunnels through veins and create a new ecosystem. my body is their home, a parasite’s sanctuary. they tie my stomach into knots, that tight feeling in my gut is when they want to race. they expand it and expand it and expand it until i have to feed a whole colony to feed myself. they gnaw on wires, pull my parts out of plugs to make my skin crawl or maybe that’s the mice crawling through my bones. i can’t sleep. the more i’m awake the more rats that move in and the more that move in the less that i sleep and we won’t call an exterminator, because what if the fumes knock me into a coma where i dream in a never-ending flood of mice that squirm and scratch and burrow and eat and fuck and piss and shit and what’s inside is outside and outside and reality is fantasy and I can’t leave please tell me it can be more humane than damning me down into a pit of vermin that ooze black ichor and swallow me whole Johnson 20 Parts of Me/The First Time I was High In a fog, speed up, past the atmosphere. Float, by the moon. View stars, as I plummet, back down, through my body. Gravity, pulls, me, to, earth’s, core. “Molten” “strands” “cling” “to” “my” “arms.” No pain. Split-in-half, my wrapped+up body, spins inwards. A? portal? to? unknown? Blackness surrounds, with echoes chanting as i float in the center that’s where i see all the parts of myself the fluid Magenta and calm Turquoise catch my eye, they are my identity, now i see they are together and separate the luscious purple doesn’t compete and the fervent blue-green flows with it United. they represent separate things, but can desire the same, they melt, sucked through skin, i do as well, seeping back into my body Content. Johnson 21 In A Home for Mice, there is a general uncomfortable feeling throughout. It compares the tics and experiences to mice ruining the insides of the body. Though it doesn’t expressly dive into the social aspect being referenced here, it shows the feeling of knowing and noticing that something is different or wrong inside and how alarming and isolating that can be. For Parts of Me/The First Time I was High, it presents finding a deeper understanding of oneself. In contrast to the alarm of the previous poem, this grants a certain calm and creates more space for self-love, an important part of queer pride. V. Multimodal Poetry An unexpected path that I took was into collage and blackout poetry. In retrospect, this felt like a natural extension of my works surrounding neuroqueer poetry. So much of the efforts by LGBTQIA+ and neurodivergent groups are used to fight against social constraints placed on straying from heteronormative behavior. This type of social control stemming from homophobia and ableism seeks to regulate social aspects, bodily and wearable appearance, gender, speech, and many more areas. As these concepts were very restrictive, it was only a matter of time before many individuals, whose identities didn’t fall into the hetero norm, resisted and ignored these social pressures. I find a similar freedom within my works involving these multimodal poetry pieces. It allowed me to approach poetry in a new way and view it in a new light. This is symbolic of the neuroqueer identity, as we ask normative culture to imagine seeing or understanding society from a different viewpoint, one that doesn’t have to adhere to previously set rules or standards. Creative works have evolved over the years, as what can and can’t be considered poetry has changed. Despite the rise of multimodal poetry, the normative of typed out poems is still the dominant form across the publishing industry. You are more likely to find publishers that don’t publish multimodal poems than you are to find ones that do. Not only do I Johnson 22 find the collage and blackout poems relevant to this thesis, but I find it a necessity, for my works and others like it, to pave the way forward to continue the evolution of poetry. We don’t need to diminish or neglect the way poetry has been done, but merely showcase what poetry can be and how resisting the way things have been done uplifts and strengthens the poetry community by creating more opportunities and space for us all. Johnson 23 Johnson 24 This multimodal poem, written with the neuroqueer perspective in mind, achieves resisting heteronormative assimilation. It also showcases some strategies I used from previous sections, such as “us vs. them,” a subdued approach, and chaotic structure, unifying what I’ve synthesized from my studies. Conclusion Through these exercises of swapping the methods, replicating trends I noticed through studying these communities’ poetry, and experimenting with collage and blackout poetry, I have improved my writing ability and have more confidence creating contributions for each of these communities. Through analyzing these varying trends, I found that rather than being limited by representing poetry for LGBTQIA+ and neurodivergent communities, there are actually more tools and techniques available to neuroqueer poets. By gaining a better understanding of both groups, we can use these unique methods to convey the complicated internal and external subject matter for the neuroqueer community. I also found multimodal poetry as a strong outlet for my neuroqueer identity, as it breaks the norm and showcases the strengths in reinventing how poetry is approached. “Naivety / that is ready to crumble does. When it crumbles / its pieces fall into a womb where the thing / most feared gestates. All mouth. All hunger. / All claw. All tooth” (Spoon 20-24). Many of us have heard the phrase, “write what you know.” But one of the most important lessons I learned through this process was to write what I didn’t know. Attempting to touch and describe something that one doesn’t have words for yet is what I argue creates great work. Through the remainder of my creative works in this portfolio, I incorporate a variety of these techniques from my observations. “I’m not interested in pretending the things I write about in my poems are also not part of my life” (Smith). Johnson 25 Bibliography Charles, Jos, and Fady Joudah. Feeld Jos Charles. Milkweed Editions, 2024. Egner, Justine E. “‘The Disability Rights Community was Never Mine’: Neuroqueer Disidentification.” Gender and Society, vol. 33, no. 1, 2019, pp. 123–47. JSTOR, https://www.jstor.org/stable/26597135. Accessed 22 Sept. 2023. Emerson, Hannah. The Kissing of Kissing: Poems. Milkweed Editions, 2022. Gerbeza, Tea. How I Bend into More: A Long Poem. Palimpsest Press, 2025. Jurecic, Ann. “Neurodiversity.” College English, vol. 69, no. 5, 2007, pp. 421–42. JSTOR, http://www.jstor.org/stable/25472229. Accessed 22 Sept. 2023. Martin, Dana Henry. “‘Toward What Is Awful,’ Yesyes Books.” Dana Henry Martin, 1 Oct. 2025, danahenrymartin.com/2012/06/01/toward-what-is-awful-yesyes-books/. Pico, Tommy. Nature Poem. Tin House Books, 2017. Savarese, Ralph. “What Some Autistics Can Teach Us about Poetry: A Neurocosmopolitan Approach.” Academia.Edu, 6 June 2014, www.academia.edu/6347978/What_Some_Autistics_Can_Teach_Us_about_Poetry_A_N eurocosmopolitan_Approach. Smith, Danez. Don’t Call Us Dead: Poems. Chatto & Windus, 2018. Sloat, Sarah J. Classic Crimes Sarah J. Sloat. Sarabande Books, 2025. Sloat, Sarah J. Hotel Almighty. Sarabande Books, 2020. Spoon, Nathan. “Be Monster by Nathan Spoon.” Poetry Foundation, Poetry Foundation, Oct. 2020, www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poems/154226/be-monster. Smith, Danez. Bluff Danez Smith. HighBridge Company, 2024. Smith, Danez. Don’t Call Us Dead: Poems. Chatto & Windus, 2018. Johnson 26 Stewart, Chris. “Nonbinary Poet Danez Smith Is Winning Awards - and Our Hearts.” Them, 16 Apr. 2018, www.them.us/story/danez-smith-is-winning-awards-and-our-hearts. Vuong, Ocean. On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous: A Novel. Penguin Books, 2021. Vuong, Ocean. Night Sky with Exit Wounds Ocean Vuong. Copper Canyon Press, 2016. Walsh, Dominic. “Am I Invisible?” The Art of Autism, 27 May 2019, the-art-ofautism.com/dominic-walsh-am-i-invisible/. Wolfond, Adam. Open Book in Ways of Water. PUNCTUM BOOKS, 2023. Wolfond, Adam. The Wanting Way: Poems. Milkweed Editions, 2022. Johnson 27 All of Me Johnson 28 Table of Contents I am a different species 29 Inner Mechanisms 30 Harsh air 31 Coming Out 32 A new blouse 33 How in the Hell do I Love Myself? Anxiety 34 37 A Home for Mice 38 I contain horror 39 Rhythm 40 Parts of me/The First Time I was High My traitorous world 4:41 A.M. 41 42 43 The whispers elongate 44 Beneath Skin and Sinew 45 He wears fathomless expression 46 The Sin of Being Bi His grave 47 49 The Ways We Die 50 Acknowledgements 55 Johnson 29 Johnson 30 Inner Mechanisms when I’m told to sit still for a picture, my soul vibrates like hummingbird wings, thrums against the container, my body will learn to settle when I’m told to communicate, my brain springs forward, a greyhound faster than its destination, words fall out before I know what I want to say my instincts will learn to think ahead when I’m told to calm down, my emotions collide into brilliant hues, turquoise, chartreuse, burgundy, violet, cosmic energy erupts in my soul, my heart will learn to bury them when I’m told to get some sleep, my connective tissue stirs, signals stream through every fiber as images coalesce behind my eyelids and interrupt my core which points out every discrepancy between us and them, we and they, inside and out, I used to sleepwalk, until I fell. groggy eyes view the stairs and my Damaged white plaster. is it concussion that leads back to sick sweet slumber? Johnson 31 Johnson 32 Coming Out Insides tear, spill. Pulses throb gut. Shaky hand clutches face. Knuckles white, veins strain. Vision blurry, tears or dilation? Stomach churns as bourbon penetrates digestive system. “What were you thinking?” Vomit swallow, shallow breath. Brain pounds, breaks the conscious. Thrum, thrum, thrum. Knee vibrates, heel bounces. Calves tighten, bribe focus. Neck tenses, shoulders strain. Quick inhales, shaky exhale. “You won’t be able to get a job. You’re risking your family’s livelihood.” Eye ducts violate. Fluids stream, mix, suffocate. Foreign wail erupts mouth, fucks eardrums. Fingernails dig. Release, clarity, drenched fog. Numb adrenaline, spiral instinct. “Why do you think that? Satan is deceiving you.” Emotions deluge. Control forsaken, time irrelevant. Phlegm. Chest falters, clutch emptiness. Finger scalp, push skin. Tired, achy, drained, sleep. “You’re not really Bi if you have a wife. Just take down the post.” Johnson 33 Johnson 34 How in the Hell do I Love Myself? 1. Masking is when neurodivergent individuals attempt to fit in socially to appear as though they are neurotypical. Camouflaging is social survival. 2. Imagine me as a drag queen on Ru Paul’s Drag Race. My name is Suga’ Lips. Wearing eye blinding pink, serving candy store cutie realness, holding a massive lollipop. Colored sprinkles pressed on lips, finger in front. Everyone shush, cause the motha’ tucking winner is here. 1. too much, don’t blink too much, don’t stare too much, don’t smile too much, don’t talk 2. Clearly a comedy queen, with zero fashion. Sense the other queens that whine how I get passes during design challenges, because comedy queens always do. I’m off in my own universe, while the other queens read me for filth. 1. Hard to keep down tics that insomnia and overthinking bring. Blink, rub hands, bite Johnson 35 fingers, wink, rub face, crack knuckles, tap knees in multiples of four, left right right left right left left right 2. My rival, Tiggle Biddies says Miss Lips never talks to us, she’s always doing her own thing, I don’t think she likes any of us. My friend in the werkroom is Sweet T. She sees the signs, she’s the sister I need. And we slay, week after week. 1. Need for safe space for safe person. Always searching, find them, save me. 2. Snatch Game is a dream come true. Freddie Mercury, idol impersonation. Now Freddie, I’ve heard you like to ride your bicycle. Is that true? Of course, Ru. I like to ride other things too. Oh really? Yes Ru, I would rock you. Sickening. Sweet T unfortunately goes home, missing the mark. I spiral. Feel like I’m alone. Then Mama Ru comes to me, and asks why I am a quiet queen. Johnson 36 1. I write better than I speak, because when I speak, words tumble out before the words inside find traction. That’s what’s inside 2. I come all the way to the final four. They hold a picture of a young Lee and ask what I want to say to him. I say I’m sorry. I never found that time machine that you hoped I would every night. I never came back to tell you that everything would be ok. I never told you that you got bullied because you were different and special, or explain to you why kids called you a fag before you even knew what that meant. I never told you that life does get better. I never wrapped you up in a hug like I desperately want to. 3. I place third and come home. I wrap my wigs, gowns, heels, makeup, padding in my closet. I stare for hours, the pain prickling my skin. When they invite me back for All Stars, I say I can’t. I haven’t been able to apply Ru’s number one lesson. 4. Carve off the stain glass caricature face hiding the imposter. Syndrome said it best. When everybody’s super, no one will be. Bath steam spreads. Drape myself in my tacky, grey, reflective shower curtain. Disco ball chic. Lean back over the sink. Lipstick stains the mirror. Johnson 37 Johnson 38 A Home for Mice they run between layers of my skin, force tunnels through veins and create a new ecosystem. my body is their home, a parasite’s sanctuary. they tie my stomach into knots, that tight feeling in my gut is when they want to race. they expand it and expand it and expand it until i have to feed a whole colony to feed myself. they gnaw on wires, pull my parts out of plugs to make my skin crawl or maybe that’s the mice crawling through my bones. i can’t sleep. the more i’m awake the more rats that move in and the more that move in the less that i sleep and we won’t call an exterminator, because what if the fumes knock me into a coma where i dream in a never-ending flood of mice that squirm and scratch and burrow and eat and fuck and piss and shit and what’s inside is outside and outside and reality is fantasy and I can’t leave please tell me it can be more humane than damning me down into a pit of vermin that ooze black ichor and swallow me whole Johnson 39 Johnson 40 Rhythm Pacing is not for anxiety marches. My grappled hooks rip melancholy thoughts from the heavens, a portal to my head, visions of cold danger, full of crisp possibility. Tapping is not for nervous waiting. We drum into soft tissue. The blast of cymbals destroy meaning. Notes are buried in the buzz of static sound. Touching is not for worried ticks. Deeper concentration bathes all of me in bright rampant energy, electric sensory siphoned into tight calloused thought. Stuttering is not for scared language. It’s the lost voyage across ill-informed sea. It’s a journey of sailors in search of sirens. Rutters spin, but the sails are torched. Laughing is for frightened agreement. The cruel mask. Horns. Violent red. Vile Monster. Predator views the mirror, but blue void stares back. Blood trails the path tears fell. Johnson 41 Parts of Me/The First Time I was High In a fog, speed up, past the atmosphere. Float, by the moon. View stars, as I plummet, back down, through my body. Gravity, pulls, me, to, earth’s, core. “Molten” “strands” “cling” “to” “my” “arms.” No pain. Split-in-half, my wrapped+up body, spins inwards. A? portal? to? unknown? Blackness surrounds, with echoes chanting as i float in the center that’s where i see all the parts of myself the fluid Magenta and calm Turquoise catch my eye, they are my identity, now i see they are together and separate the luscious purple doesn’t compete and the fervent blue-green flows with it United. they represent separate things, but can desire the same, they melt, sucked through skin, i do as well, seeping back into my body Content. Johnson 42 Johnson 43 4:41 A.M. …I wake in the morning and I step outside And I take a deep breath and I get real high And I scream from the top of my lungs “What’s going on?” -4 Non Blondes The child stirs from slumber drawing thoughts from looped typing and failed collective, pieced together in strands of forgotten echoes. Breastmilk thaws from dormancy, the cycle anew. Contemplate calloused hands and feet, like split sidewalks like textured walnut shells like cracked glass. Mind pirouettes between alertness and exhaustion, as hungry suckle drones through reality. Placed back in order, the stoic night is approached on back porch. Sucking the dreamstick, the earth fades, a fog. They try to trap us, but we escape. Contemplate this cycle, swell into a ripe watermelon clutch the bottom of a hot air balloon body swirls into separated ions, crayons melt down the barrier that contains the ghost who hides the fabric of us. To seek the comfort of weighted blankets and heedless snores. Johnson 44 Johnson 45 Beneath Skin and Sinew The pull of my being is a tide Flowing in defective-desire And grasping at fibers of Ambitious excess. i Suck in the foam and mix The fluids-of-salt tasting the Rod and the cavern. equal And different gratified By the spore sewn into My veins with ice and Venom. strip away the Vulgar rags fastened by Hand to rib cage. glide Palm to center and Grasp. my. life. force. Summoned. from. core. Pause to view the trickle of me Given without restrictions Not dragged to worm or Crevice. drawn to Intangible Immortal To what we crave Hand clutches Hair Mouth brushes Brow Soul touching Soul Sky falling farther Johnson 46 Johnson 47 The Sin of Being Bi Reach to the tree and pull out the crimson fruit it twists in my hand, pulsates, squirms. Bring to lips, only to thrust forward. Fruit descends, glares of distrust. Hand slapped, led away. Arms pulled, separate directions. Split in half, one takes the preferred route. Spun in laundromat, my colors fade. Bright tangerine sweater, wraps tightly around wrists. Pulls and pulls, but I fall back in. Floods of sunflower, suffocating positivity. Chest shrinks, cannot expand. Resistance falls against expectation. Hyperventilate with no lungs. Back to the tree. Feel the trunk, ridged defects formed by time. Jade leaves cover broken underbelly. Grasp a handful, seal in an envelope. Send them to the first betrayer. Eyes sting, submerged in soap. Rinse out my insides, as owner plucks out the filth. Bleach the liver, stomach, spine. Owner frowns, as I fall back to the cobalt slurry. Memory fades. Care for little other than Self. Pulls the plug on coagulated anxiety. Watch the indigo sludge drain. Overcome the narrative, Johnson 48 embrace the person. Amethyst orchids blossom. Fruit taken. Bring to lips, drain the color. Johnson 49 Johnson 50 The Ways We Die 1. Clacking computer keys makes such a dull noise. Working from home, spreadsheet, accounts, numbers, quota, spin in my chair from boredom. The screen fuses with my face, as my energy drains into the electric grid. I glance through the window that’s two feet higher than my desk. Clouds piss on my backyard. It doesn’t bother me. Most days I don’t go outside. 2. The police guessed he leaned over to change the station on the radio as he drove through the canyon. That’s why he slowly merged into the other lane. That’s why he didn’t see the semi-truck coming around the mountain bend. That’s why the horn was too late. That’s why he had to be life-flighted. That’s why he left me. That’s why 3. I got what I thought I wanted. But how was I supposed to know how they’d scream and rip me to shreds. I thought coming out Johnson 51 would help them understand me better, but all it did was hammer that last nail in our relationship. 4. Club Q shot me up inside the way that fucker did there 5. when your child says they hate you when you find a parking ticket on your car when you have another fight with your parents when your work downsizes you when you take an unexpected trip to the hospital when you hurt the few people that care about you when you rearend someone when you’re sick of music when your phone dies 6. Streams of red, white and gold. Victory tastes Johnson 52 like champagne filling with lead. Champions celebrate. So, what happens when they can’t? The crowds cheering, now screaming. You’re not afraid of the fall, but the face of your pale son, speckled with your blood. 7. Our miscarriage almost cost us two for the price of one, and we can’t separate them in our heads. So we’re doomed to relive that day marked in our calendars as the day we travelled in an ambulance to the hospital for immediate surgery. I sobbed in the waiting room not knowing the ER’s sale had expired 8. Dear Lee, While I thought your writing was very strong, I ultimately struggled to fall in love with your premise. There are a lot of common elements within your story and didn't find there to be a fresh enough spin here that would make this sellable in comparison to everything else on the shelf. I am sorry I am not emailing with better news and no doubt another agent will feel differently. I wish you all the very best luck finding a great home and enthusiastic champion for your work. All my best, 9. My bully from high school committed suicide… Johnson 53 and I don’t know how I’m supposed to feel. 10. Have you ever thought about who has thought about you for the last time? How many people from school work clubs gatherings friend groups have forgotten you exist? 11. I know you asked. I know my heart promised that you could die first, so that you would never have to live a day without me. I worry my heart lied. It hid its fused valves, and pretended like they would mend Johnson 54 themselves. It murmured a yes and said all was fine. bicuspid aortic valve My brain finally did the research and the survival rate for living past five years after the surgery is 80%. So, what’s the rate that comes after that? One of the many doctors said I would probably need that surgery when I’m fifty. That’s why I’m trying to lose the weight and trying to grip life with cracked fingers and squeeze until the endorphins drip through and I can finally drown in satisfaction. My love, I’ll try to live for you. Johnson 55 Acknowledgements Grateful acknowledgement is made to the editors of the following publications where versions of these poems first appeared: Ink In Thirds: “Harsh air” New Delta Review: “I contain horror” Seneca Review: “His grave” The Indianapolis Review: “A new blouse,” “I am a different species,” and “My traitorous world” The Passionfruit Review: “How in the Hell do I Love Myself?” Tupelo Quarterly: “Anxiety,” “He wears fathomless expression,” and “The whispers elongate”