Rattle

The streets are awash with rainbow glitter and unbridled enthusiasm. A year ago I stood crying on an AirTrain with a drag queen's gold paint on my shoulder; it's a strange time of year, I didn't make the rules, I barely know how to play. I stumbled home drunkenly along Houston; we fell into a hole in the wall for a night cap no one needed, but our shared words nestled like little gifts in my pocket and fell out on the floor before I passed out on the bed, sprinkling shimmer onto the cool sheets beneath the AC.

The years amass with all the same questions, all the same determination and road maps. I waver in all the same ways. But I remain on the path: the strange, crooked one full of thorns and blind corners, the one that doesn't seem to make sense to the sensible people around me but which to me is the only one worth walking. When they ask who it is I'm trying to be, the answer hasn't changed.

Adventure beckons in the margins. It never forgot how to call my name.