Chain Male part 2

They look for a trace of their place on my face. I can’t confirm their turn. To cut from K. Flay, my name isn’t Kathrine. It’s my turn to face the place of Sr’s, Jr’s, and thirds. I have to be everything that came before me when they see my face. That means trace the outline: short hair, stubborn, and in of place. The thing about not being descended from kings is that you carry this burden of hurting every generation if you don’t climb to another hierarchal station.

They see my face and look to the ground, because they can’t stomach that looks are all the care about, or we wouldn’t have to hear about this hair about. You came out of the 60’s and learn to be afraid of hippies and yippies. I think you saw their dress and age, and didn’t stop to listen to their message. It didn’t quite define me and until you said “no, go… oh, you’re keeping it.” My hair grew comfortable.

I’ll extinguish each trace until this is my own face, not Henry the Eighth’s. I saw you look down. Tradition is an admission we’ll keep doing the same set of actions, each year reacting without analysis in paralysis, chucking plastic trash until we develop callouses, because the party has to go without original thought. We’ll gender reveal this forest to the ground and 4th of July the clean air down. I wonder if One said Two “this what you have to do” until thirteen appeared and seared into generations the disappointment of old eyes.

We need Silver statistics and polls and analytics to tell us that you’re son will never be Caesar and its my pleasure not to be a pleaser. People in power only tower and the same name is no claim to respect: just look at JFK and Louisiana’s Senator John Kennedy. Destiny said one was to try and the other was to monger and lie. I was born in media res to see other men linked by a name. And it took me a minute to find a trace that could define my face without my namesake. And sometimes I’m still running in place from eyes looking down because in me they are nowhere to be found.