You in My Childhood Home

by Eli Sobel


I’m angry with you like citronella wax, sweetly

sticky
and unfounded, at your audacity to accept my

invitation
to teach me the feeling of your additional body

sinking
into the bed frame where I first learned to

masturbate

My kisses were sloppier than our third-date

sushi, which was sloppy
my squeezes were tighter than that one time,

which was too tight
I flushed hot, tucked my nose to your chest,

at my shame to hide
you beneath my granny’s yellowing presence

In your bitten lip, I taste her glasses frames,
her exhales in the stitches of the quilt we

pawed,
which taught me that the strongest things tear not
at the seams but right down the middle

The cat’s out of the bag, I decide she would say,
I whispered upwards and figured she’d get the

message
and I told you I thought our most honest part
was everything we’ve ever said to our ceilings

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Eli Sobel (they/them): I write from my belief in the radically queer, the revolutionary blurring of binaries, boundaries, and expectations.