Shedding Skin

by RJ Shepherd

The first brick was lost
to the foundation of the house,
not thrown, just set aside,
forgotten in the cool garden dirt.

I wore my father's jacket once,
a heavy parachute of denim too big
I longed to get lost in.
Swore I saw the future in the mirror's blur.

Me and my brother built a fortress out of pillows,
planned a life of unblinking sun, before we learned
that shadows also grow, demanding space
in a fight that waited and wouldn’t be won.

The rules arrived like winter,
quiet at first, then absolute.
I wondered what to pack, what to leave behind,
and how to fold laughter to fit inside a drawer.
Traded in naivety for keys that feel too heavy,
and started to measure time in mortgages and miles.

How did the house stay up when
I remember the world rushing in.

RJ Shepherd is a son, brother, and a student under the College of Arts and Sciences at the University of North Florida. As an out transgender man, he also serves as the news editor at Spinnaker, a student-run media outlet. His poetry work is original and unpublished.