the acolytes of science
dictate i cannot reach
emotional maturity for
another couple decades
(by no fault of my own
(by way of my y-chromosome))
so i sob in the meantime
and laugh and sob and
grip my fists in anger
and if you asked me why i
felt some way, i couldn’t say
i might peel my own artichoke
to measure the shape
of my very own heart
but how do you reassemble
an artichoke?