Msikquatash is a stolen word we never learned
to spell properly like quayaq and iglu I don’t think I’ve ever tasted its salt on my tongue the way the recipe intended I wrote it so American so many times I believed I was right I believed I was American And now I believe that pointing out that I was once mistaken should make everyone feel better and forgiving Because America Who I fuck has never been the business of anyone I’ve felt the need to tell which is why I stayed so silent until my mid-twenties when I needed everyone to know how much I didn’t need them or their approval Every version of heaven I’ve ever written seems like a curse for the builders to satiate the needs of the most broken people I’ve ever loved Whenever I try to answer a complicated question with an experience I remember as being simple and helpful I gather the quizzical looks of men who love me even if they realize we’ve never really spoken the same language.
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