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Chosen Family

"Her dad called this place 'Lesbian House'," they chuckled, "but she's the only lesbian, and he doesn't even know.

"He just thinks that the rest of us are lesbians, which," with a nod, "you know isn't quite right."

///

We hold hands listening to poetry, you like holding my hands because my skin is soft.

"Do you use lotion?" you ask.

"No." I answer. I think about the cold winters in the Northeast when my hands would dry and crack. But I liked to show off my wounds like I was a boxer with cracked up knuckles.

You know how hard it is to keep a plaster on one's hand? So I just let it be, until I thought better about how soft skin only lasts so long, and for awhile I did use lotion to soothe those angry grooves. Just out of good nurture, I guess that went away.

And because of that, I had the smooth hands to hold yours tight, to squeeze one another's hands when the lines in the poetry felt like blades or blossoms. Before this moment, who knew there were stories for people like us? To be so unashamed of our bodies because we do not feel lost if we are one or the other.

///

I spend my Fridays here with you all, to listen to whatever gets the best of me. I don't have a seat reserved, which is no matter because I am always among the first to arrive, and scope out the new location. We orient ourselves to stream secrets through lenses with absent traces. You tell me about how you'd like us to put something together like this sometime.

You rush to check the camera. You rush to check the mic. You rush to check the piano.

My brain whirs as it unlatches from everything passed through the door.

///

Our voices in the bell tour echo, we revolve around each other like stars. We cry and scream because we are confused and tired and thankful.

///

I look for you all at the booth, the one closest to the back entrance, so I could see you right away if I enter the opposite hall. I drop my things off and rush to see you at the queue.

"I see you've put your things down already, mind if I join you?"

"Always, and nice sweater."

"I could say the same."

So we are bundled and chatter about lost of lust and stolen performance.

Once of us is behind the register, they always know our order.

///

With you I've never been forced to take a sip of more than I would want. What is becomes what is ours. Exploring, chest binders, binding tape, trading shirts, trading songs.

Painting our nails together. I remember when I couldn't paint my nails. I remember when my hands felt so old.

Learning how to use clippers and sitting in the brisk cold as I watch my hair fall from my shoulders and to my lap and to the ground. The ground where I lay later when I get back from a bad night. You make a smoothie while they make ramen. We have a feast in spite of the hours. I remember where I was meant to be, in this mundane way, I remember my life is so much greater than one bad night.

No, one bad moment.

Now, one good night.

///

I can be a bit more like the person who is just like this. Just like a part of this family. Where I love you is more than a phrase but constant gestures. Gentle, pleading, eternal.