MELEE by Joni Thomas

I wake inside the rumor of myself—

a throat unbuttoned from its blood.

Some mornings, the mirror hisses choose.

So I do: I choose the damage that glows.

The room smells faintly of rust 

& raw meat.

All my faces file a complaint.

Each one shaping holiness 

from a different wound.

I inventory the artifacts:

a blister shaped like a confession,

a spine rehearsing its own refusal.

In the kitchen, a knife hums in its sleep—

its dream: a tongue that never stops splitting.

History wants me sentimental.

Instead, I give it static,

a hymn made of switchblades

and lipgloss.

I was told softness is currency—

so I spent it all,

bought back my anger

in installments.

Every time I say body,

I mean border under siege.

Every time I say love,

I mean don’t shoot.

There are so many genders in the room

and every one of them is mine.

I lay my dress across the floor—

it looks like surrender,

it feels like strategy.

Listen—

the war is over

only when the echo

stops using my name.

Until then, I keep singing:

not as prayer,

but as proof

I survived the choreography.