The Place Where You End and I Begin.
I grew up in rural Ohio in a city which was once one of the largest industrial producers in the country but now forces much of the community to leave in search of jobs. The ones who stay keep the shame of the failure eat at their pride. Here, my family owns and operates automotive repair show under our family name. Through this work, I explore my relationship with my father, rural identity, and where my own gender lies in between those two. I begin to try to understand my father by becoming him and revisiting the area I grew up in. Exploring the isolation and shame I feel within rural space and how those feelings are mirrored within the queer community due to this upbringing.
the basement
I stand at its entrance.
A large black door warned of what existed behind it.
I place my hand firmly on the handle,
my knuckles turn bone white,
a reflection looks back at me in its gold.
I fling it open to see
stairs descending into an unending dark.
My cast shadow makes its way down
not waiting up for me where
my toes crest the top stair,
waiting for courage to strike.
When it does I throw myself down them,
a wonder I don't fall.
I count each step as I go,
my bounding rival my own heart,
there's twelve before I catch the light switch.
The fluorescent bulb flickers on with a dull hum.
It takes a second to warm up to full brightness
and even when it does I still check around corners
before I step down.
the tangled red carpet pools around my feet
staining and soiling them
someone was murdered here.
The smell of cigarette smoke burns my lungs with each intake
addiction evident in its presence.
The shag is long gone now,
a short contemporary beige in its place.
But I can still see it in your blood-soaked cheeks.
Its smell in your yellow rotten teeth.
This past I wish not to know,
finds me here every night,
its vile stench underneath my skin.
This cannot be cleaned.
