earring garden

i pierced my own ears with a sewing needle
in the bedroom dark. we were girls,
my mirror & i. either that or we were gardeners. 
we were familiar with blood. dotting
each other's lobes with a sharpie 
& saying, "breathe out." they were pierced before.
a gun in a shopping mall. neon rapture.
my aunt saying, "don't touch them."
to search for where the body is penetrable.
i am always impatient. i craved pineapples 
from my ears. you, my mirror, you craved 
a diamond tooth & lips pressed to your listening. 
i'll tell you a story about trying to have a body. 
being trans is less about gender & more about
longing. what do you long to be? trace your yearning
to the skin & then press the needle. come out
on the other side. dab away the blood.
find the garden of earrings & do not pick
just one. grab studs & hoops & beads.
taste metal. tell everyone, "it didn't hurt at all."
of course it did though. my whole head throbbing.
pillow stained with red blotches 
in the morning. i washed it in the bath,
embarrassed by the gore. still i beamed at myself 
when i gazed in the mirror again in the morning.
there was the ivy. there were the orchids.