Things You Won’t Believe We Survived

i want to walk the streets of your voice
and sleep against the hot air vents of your sidewalks.

i want to dream about another city inside of you
filled with powdery bone dust and gold-plated ceilings.

there is a person blowing between buildings like a scrap of yesterday’s paper, a reminder of the end of the world falling on deaf ears. they taste like fresh ground peppers and failure. they sweat out rivers that fill reservoirs that we drink from when we are sad. it tastes like relief.

you are stunning in the sun.

you are living proof that all confidence is, by definition, false confidence.

you are the endlessness of two mirrors facing one another.

one day i forgot how to drive. the freeway cracked beneath my wheels, opened up and swallowed me whole. i found a world where gravel felt like blankets, where my blood comforted me with its warmness. i was a piece of glass among several pieces of glass. you picked me up and sliced your finger open.

you found comfort in your blood too.

Joshua Jennifer Espinoza is a trans woman poet. You can read more of her work here.

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