I Feel Most Like Myself With Painted Nails

Rouge sunset battered

atop each finger

a small galaxy

of comet & solar flare,

I am a god

of these two hands

& today let there be

unapologetic light.

Let there be an origin

story that is not bruised

fruit lodged in the throat

like a knife with no hilt.

When someone says

man [     ] up, they mean

what breathing thing

have you made

into a wound? What wounds

have you worn as trophy?

I try to name

a masculinity

that is not a wolf

masked in the body

of a wolf

& I end up howling

at the white fist pressed

into the night’s soft cheek.

I’m sorry I’m not

sorry I undressed

myself of knuckles today.

I imagined a universe

not dipped in blood

& made myself drip

with starlight.

I walked out

the front door

& marveled

at the way everything I touch

shines.