the edges of your manhood are paradoxical; too lightning-sharp, fractalled and jagged, and too soft all at once, curving and forgiving in ways you wish they wouldn’t. angles and curves and you, trapped between them, lost in the recursive patterns of your ribs jutting like cliff faces, bowing in to the swell of your chest you wish simply wasn’t.
statement of michael crew, regarding the body, the sky, and the things shared between becoming and transition.




















