Lit Mags
My Gender Won’t Fit in the Family Car
"KB’s Origin Story" and "Yebba’s Heartbreak," two poems by KB
My Gender Won’t Fit in the Family Car
This article is free to read. So is every article Electric Literature publishes. No limits, no paywalls—now or ever. But we rely on your support to keep it that way.
We need to raise $35,000 by April 15 to keep the lights on, and time is running out.
Help us reach the next milestone—$15,000—by donating now.
—————
KB’s Origin Story
I was born a weary son painted into a family unit. I can’t fit in, but I do fit jeans if I squeeze into them enough. I pain myself with laughter when someone asks whose baby is this. I sleep in a tunnel of judgments I can’t kick. I was born a drury daughter, a crash into a tiny parked car. In the impact, my gender sprawls all over the navy leather passenger seat. This can’t be a wonderful scene: the navy leather passenger seat and my gender sprawled all over. A tiny parked car crashes; in the impact, I was born a drury daughter. In a tunnel of judgments I can’t kick, I sleep. Whose baby is this. With laughter, when someone asks into me enough, I pain myself to fit in. And I do fit genes if I squeeze paint into a family unit. I can’t be born a weary son.
Yebba’s Heartbreak
—after Drake I do. Count how quickly the moon moves phases & how quickly I abandon a poem draft for another half-baked memory. The scraps document in my mind must be at least 300 pages. My dating profile must be at least 3 zodiac signs, 2 fun facts, 1 fatality I’m still recovering from displayed in every emoji. My manuscript is spilling over with head-turners & heartbreak. Paper clips & Drake playlists have never been stretched this thin. I want to do better but I don’t know how or when. Maybe 10 of the scraps are romantic; I say it’s cause I leave that shit to Sinatra. Truth is I leave pages (& lovers) soon as it’s inconvenient; too vulnerable; too meaningful; I do. But today I want my skin tethered to this chair. I’m staying inside these stanzas; I’m finally ready to tell the truth. All smoke & piano & somber spillings of times a lover treated me all perfect & I packed up prematurely. Her eyes crusted open as my glutted gym bag swung across me & when her sepia irises filled with my reflection, I had to flee. Candyman. Spewing sugared empty statements like of course I love you out of unknowing. Of course I am a liar & I am learning for you. For now I’ll say I do & vow to finish more sapphic poems after I wrap these wounds. Tell her Honey, my love spreads farther than my need to hide behind history for you. I do.
