Crooked

Where is my head? I’m not sure. Why are some people born straight, and some crooked like me? My queer spiritual healer said this, and I can’t stop thinking about it. A winding wood, growing crooked, nothing straight about me. If I had the chance to choose, I wonder what it’s like to be normal. But then, of course, this is the turn of the poem. A crooked growth means it can be a loophole. And a loophole can be a means to freedom. I like being free. I like kisses on the nose. I like the smell of my feet and your armpits. I like the smell of gross. I like tasting blended tangerines. I like the gap in your teeth because my tongue fits like a key. I like the holes in my heart because it makes me see. Had it not been, I would have never noticed.