By Sage Agee

My chest leaks liquid sentiment. 
Sustaining another life sometimes
means forgetting my own.

There is darkness in pumping white 
milk from a chest on lease. 

I can’t wait to return it to the hospital room, 
nipples and all.

My doctor says I can start 
testosterone in ten months—
when I am an independent country
tethered only by treaties
an agreement to continue to grow their food.

My hormones read my texts, 
and overcharge my system 
with what makes me bleed Jupiter’s Storm.

I stare at my Great Red Spot
knowing what this could mean 
if I don’t choose a new birth control method soon.

My bathroom’s trash can 
is filled with hidden messages, 
I spend the night scrubbing blood 
from thick material that covers me up 
breathable enough.

The search bar pulses: 
“Why is my baby’s poop green?”
“What are the easiest seeds to grow in Oregon?”
“Whose land do I occupy?”

“Whose body was I born into and are they missing it?” 
When will my chest 
stop fucking
leaking?

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Sage Agee (they/them) is a queer, nonbinary poet and parent living in rural Oregon. They are currently inspired by the works of Billy-Ray Belcourt and the unbelievable evolution of their brand new baby, Otto.