Cameron Chiovitti
Demi Lovato Comes Out as Non-Binary
& I can’t say I’m surprised.
The way they talk about cutting their hair feels too ceremonial
To be anything other than a gouging.
I, too, dipped my toes into the steel.
First, the half-shave.
My fingers across the stubble-
Tiny people inside of me dancing.
I let my friends and family get used to the idea before,
One night, I convinced my girlfriend to cut it all off.
That night wings sprouted from behind my ears.
That night my neck shed its own pores.
That night the mirror saw myself.
Demi says they feel they were pigeon-holed
Into pinning their femininity to their skin.
I remember bows in my hair,
I danced in heels.
My femininity- gauntlets;
I’d punch anyone who dared to tell me I was butch.
I feared being read as a lesbian,
So I buried any part of myself
That might be considered “gay.”
I refused to own flannel for years.
I kept my love of SnapBacks a secret.
I mounted my girlhood to my forehead-
A pretty pink placard assuring all that I was just like them.
I can only imagine the pressure of the spotlight.
I imagine Demi got tired
Of lying.
I imagine Demi clawed off their skin
To grow.
I imagine Demi’s truth poked
Through their skin like broken bones;
All muscle and cartilage.
My coming out (when am I not coming out?)
Was the casting of my limbs.
I allowed myself to heal.
I patched each person inside of me’s hearts
With Mickey Mouse Band-Aids.
Yes, there is no permanence in this,
But there is a return to youth-
A return to the simplicity
Of knowing who you are
And not caring what others think of it.
I wonder if Demi lives inside of me,
Or me inside of them.
We are too familiar to have never met.
I know the way their stomach holds
Food tightly in its grasp,
Afraid to let go.
They know the way my hyena heart inhales
A little too sharply, exhales
Too little of the toxins.
We have the same blackened organs;
We’ve been charred from the inside out.
Still, our lungs choose to pump
Oxygen into our bodies.
Still, our bodies do not reject the oxygen.
Still, our bodies do not disintegrate.
The tiny people rejoice-
An upheaval of party streamers.
The thin paper coats my trachea.
I choke on my own joy.
I am not used to this:
Joy.
I no longer punish the people for feeling.
I no longer shear my insides into shrubbery.
I no longer hate myself on purpose.
I am here, bathing in all this excess-
Sticky on my skin,
Like it might stay for a while.
& I can’t say I’m surprised.
The way they talk about cutting their hair feels too ceremonial
To be anything other than a gouging.
I, too, dipped my toes into the steel.
First, the half-shave.
My fingers across the stubble-
Tiny people inside of me dancing.
I let my friends and family get used to the idea before,
One night, I convinced my girlfriend to cut it all off.
That night wings sprouted from behind my ears.
That night my neck shed its own pores.
That night the mirror saw myself.
Demi says they feel they were pigeon-holed
Into pinning their femininity to their skin.
I remember bows in my hair,
I danced in heels.
My femininity- gauntlets;
I’d punch anyone who dared to tell me I was butch.
I feared being read as a lesbian,
So I buried any part of myself
That might be considered “gay.”
I refused to own flannel for years.
I kept my love of SnapBacks a secret.
I mounted my girlhood to my forehead-
A pretty pink placard assuring all that I was just like them.
I can only imagine the pressure of the spotlight.
I imagine Demi got tired
Of lying.
I imagine Demi clawed off their skin
To grow.
I imagine Demi’s truth poked
Through their skin like broken bones;
All muscle and cartilage.
My coming out (when am I not coming out?)
Was the casting of my limbs.
I allowed myself to heal.
I patched each person inside of me’s hearts
With Mickey Mouse Band-Aids.
Yes, there is no permanence in this,
But there is a return to youth-
A return to the simplicity
Of knowing who you are
And not caring what others think of it.
I wonder if Demi lives inside of me,
Or me inside of them.
We are too familiar to have never met.
I know the way their stomach holds
Food tightly in its grasp,
Afraid to let go.
They know the way my hyena heart inhales
A little too sharply, exhales
Too little of the toxins.
We have the same blackened organs;
We’ve been charred from the inside out.
Still, our lungs choose to pump
Oxygen into our bodies.
Still, our bodies do not reject the oxygen.
Still, our bodies do not disintegrate.
The tiny people rejoice-
An upheaval of party streamers.
The thin paper coats my trachea.
I choke on my own joy.
I am not used to this:
Joy.
I no longer punish the people for feeling.
I no longer shear my insides into shrubbery.
I no longer hate myself on purpose.
I am here, bathing in all this excess-
Sticky on my skin,
Like it might stay for a while.