by: Justin Huang
I wear my heart on my sleeve
subject to the whims of nature
When it rains, my heart gets wet and drips like wax
When it is windy, my heart flutters like a kite
Here, on my sleeve, my heart lies vulnerable
It gets snatched away
And it is playground tag all over again.
I wear my heart around my neck
on a thin, unraveling string
It is no noose; it doesn’t choke me
but it grows weighty
me onto my knees
submissive, prostrate before my delusions.
I wear my heart on the sole of my foot
always downtrodden on my travels
My confident stride bears it down
flattening it to a manageable size
leaving bits of slimy tissue on the sidewalk
where insects sweetly mate.
I wear my heart on my back
where I can’t see it
but it is there, an elusive tattoo
that catches me by surprise
when I preen and pamper in the mirror.
I wear my heart on my groin
where it lights up, a disco ball!
Brilliant and shimmering
Awesome and fabulous
Pulsating to the beat
in dark clubs and dank bedrooms
illuminating undeserving faces.
My heart is everywhere
Touched, Fondled, Squeezed, Scratched.
It is everywhere
the nooks and crevasses on my skin
Everywhere, except where—I’m told—it is supposed to be:
In the cavity of my chest
there is a faithful organ with no name
that pumps reliably, undeniably
nourishing its bastard brothers.
Justin Huang is 25, Asian, male, gay, overly cocky, popular, insecure, shy, gassy, loudmouthed, promiscuous, guilt-ridden, nonjudgmental, hardworking, goofy and dead serious. Huang is a film editor and a personal fitness trainer in Los Angeles, both of which mean I sit in coffeeshops and gyms a lot trying to look cute. Follow me @justinhuang.