i am trying very hard to become two things at once: verse-chorus. birth-death. feminine- masculine. light-dark. romance-tragedy. i am trying very hard to tell myself that i know what it means to be endless tragedies & a moth pinned out for taxidermy & a constant reminder of what i could’ve been if i had cared more. i am trying very hard to become two things at once: how i become yin&yang at the same time, kissdrunk lips and winered mouths, neverending chorus splits into repeating verse. i think if i was made for the heavens, i’d bring you up with me, baby, just to fall down to hell again. i think the moth & i are not so dissimilar. i’m not quite sure how to be comfortable in my own body & i am not quite sure how to haunt what it means to be queer. i am trying very hard to become two things at once: lover-loved. more-nothing. light-dark. evil-good. i am balancing what it means to be an open wound & a romantic tragedy & all i can think about is how i can touch my skin & pretend i’m not real anymore. i touch myself where i know how to filet strips into violin-string-impressions so that i remember i used to be something else. this is a coming-of-age film, where girlboy finally sheds their skin & becomes freak & this is a coming out story. i am trying very hard to be loved & desired & raw & an open wound & a portrait on fire & i don’t know how to do anything but be a tragedy; a warning to stop haunting my own skin. i am a moth pinned out for taxidermy. i am starting to think i was not made for the heavens.