Her Majesty The King

She is the sweet perfume of brilliant red summer strawberries, of sticky citrus hands and lush blankets of green grass. She is sweet-smelling and kind and quiet, and She and I know each other very well. I have known Her since birth, since birth I have lived Her.

He is the salty spray of the ocean, waves of black and blue throwing salt and tossing back light, seething with the type of vengeance usually reserved for gods. He is the rolling thunder of an ash gray sky, pelting rain that meets the skin like a bee sting, and He and I met just a couple years ago. Even though we haven’t known each other for quite as long, He knows me better than She ever could.

They are the rising smoke of a roaring fire, crackling and sending bursts of sunset orange and golden yellow into the sky. They are the rich brown dirt of earth freshly overturned, teeming with survival. I haven’t known Them for very long, but we are becoming acquainted. They are kind to me, They keep me safe when the others can't.

It is the sickly autumn yellow and violent deep purple of a bruise, a black eye not yet healed. It is the ancient and dry deathly white of the bones of something long-dead, something buried deep in a cave somewhere, something we hesitate to dig up. I have only met It a couple of times, and each time has been distinctly unpleasant. It does not know me like the others do, and I doubt It ever will.

My family and the government are the same in that they both call me She. My friends call me He, or sometimes They. My enemies call me It. My lovers call me angel, or baby, or sweetheart, or mi amor. Somewhere in all of these, I am able to find myself.