Take unmother, take queer youngster, take I was wrong about my brain, it’s got a long way to go. Take it and cash in, get coin, make heavy pockets, reinforce the seams and take me, I’m done with I, because I am not one I am not three, I am not I, I am we. Steal my government-issued IDs, the corresponding numbers, the scores that buy me shelter, take age 30. I can easily abandon gold rings, black boots, the feeling of being sexy, the feeling of being the ugliest, most unlovable fucker in the room. Take dimples and cracked teeth, take memory of my brother face down on the same street I skated when I was little, still shitting my pants, take the time my brother was still alive, when I was a different kind of breathing, another kind of sleeping, no eye mask, no ear plugs, no jolt up i-am-alone, take those nights when you empty my account, take dreams of my blood waiting, take the doctor’s call, take the same procedure and hope for different results. Take my swanky job, take my trophies, my crown, my scepter from ’97, take my discomfort in the car when my mother asked, take my picture, take the dress I stole, take the memory of all I’ve stolen, take my beer gut and my strong arms, take the weakness that has waned, take the flare-ups. Take my birthdate and my hair, take my lover and my daughter, take the infinity spinning within me, take my identity.