My drag is a kind of elevator.
It’s like a title.
You’re soaking in it.
It’s chainmail and a courtesy for your likes.
I start my stories with it.
And when I’m hungry it opens the door.
The door is pop-up window into my soul.
Deep and meditative, a vertigo of soul.
My cruel, divisive temperament: my cross
to bear, we all bear it because of out shared
ancestry: lint, filth, water, sulphur.