AbstractProphet
22/GF
He/They Transmasc / The title of every poem contains the word count/number of lines. (For example, 41/8 "Two Voids" has 41 words divided between 8 lines.) I use this method for my personal records. / I'm looking for poetry friends, so feel free to DM me!
I wonder,
What does it feel like
To wear skin
That doesn’t itch with questions?
To belong without trying?
To speak without
Measuring each syllable
as if it might detonate
Some nights, I dream of it.
A world where I
Am happy,
Free,
Normal.
A gentle place where
My mind can be at peace
Without searching for fire.
Where I am not a
Wound in disguise.
Where I arrive.
And nothing aches.
I wonder if
She’s there somewhere-
A version of me
That exists without flinching.
One that doesn't scan every
Silence for what she
Must have done.
One that doesn't rephrase
Ever goodbye.
In ease it's the last.
I imagine her
Walking through the day,
Hands unclenched,
Heart unguarded-
No armor of apologies.
She breathes,
And it isn't labor.
She rests,
And the sky doesn't crumble.
In that place,
Love is not earned
By bleeding beautifully.
Joy is not suspicious.
And my name feels like
Mine when someone
Else says it.
I do not beg the mirror
To be kind.
Or for my mother
To be a mom.
I do not carry the weight
Of being to much,
Or too little.
There,
I wake without dread,
I sleep without guilt.
And for once,
I live without trying.
Jan 22
Jan 22, 2026 at 12:06 AM UTC
There’s a pit in my chest.
It feels like a bottomless rot.
It reminds me of the way you molded me.
You took everything from me.
Everything it took to be human.
I became nothing but another one of your fungi.
Your mycelium infected my body, my mind, my soul.
No one could save me from the spores;
They fell out of you like your sickening words.
Almost accidental. Almost beautiful.
Always intentional. Always ugly.
After my humanity withered,
Only your fungal infection remained,
piloting my body like a parasitic cordyceps.
It filled my throat with mushrooms and spoke for me.
The words it spoke copied yours; after all, they were.
Doctor after doctor treated me for the symptoms,
But there was no cure in sight.
Then I figured it out.
You are nothing but an interconnected organism of pain.
You use other people’s trauma to manipulate them into hurting themselves.
And it’s all because of your pain.
At the center of the mycelium is a dying mushroom trying to survive at all costs.
Trying to devour other life in order to keep devouring.
You are a cancer.
And I’ll cut you out if I have to.
Jan 21
Jan 21, 2026 at 11:12 PM UTC
My body is a patchwork of all the times I’ve sewn myself back together.
You came along with a seam ripper, needles, and an old sewing machine.
I thought you would use them to gently return me to my original design.
I thought you would make me whole again, as a sort of seamstress savior.
But you didn’t have those supplies prepared to mend me or even yourself.
Even when I found out the truth, I trusted you to fix my tattered fabric.
You cinched and pinned me into a shape I didn’t recognize anymore.
You ripped out my stitches, and started sewing a new jacket for your size.
When I told you it hurt, you didn’t seem to care. You ignored my pleas.
When I’d finally had enough, I ran from your cruel redesign of my identity.
My new shape wasn’t designed to run, an intentional choice on your part.
You came and found me stumbling in the cold, and took me back home.
I escaped your carefully made sewing room again and again, only to return.
I took me months to cut the long trail of threads leading you straight to me.
With the last thread snipped, I escaped for the final time. I was finally free.
But I was not the same quilt as when I met you. I was a quilted jacket now.
I was only meant to keep someone warm. Only meant to keep you warm.
Now that I was on my own, I thought I needed to find another wearer.
I tried finding someone else to use the coat that you had turned me into.
But none of them fit right because you tailored me to your measurements.
Making a new me to suit you was never even more than a hobby to you.
The task of remaking my entire identity back into a quilt falls on me now.
I dated you to fix my mismatched patches only to learn I must fix myself.
All that pain. All that trauma and abuse. And I still don’t know how to sew.
Apr 15, 2025
Apr 15, 2025 at 1:04 PM UTC
Two pairs of pliers in my hand. A silver chain between them. To most, this is creation. But, no. This is destruction. Tugging at the jump rings is also pulling at my heartstrings. Is it sympathy? Do I empathize with the connections that my own hands wrought? No, it's a steaming burning hot coal sitting heavily upon my pride. Why am I rendering my own creation useless? Taking all the shiny ends off the suncatcher, so that it may deflect rays of light no more. Well, I must. I have no choice. I must destroy the best thing I ever made to make smaller versions of it. These flawed fractions will be nothing like my original work. They will be merely reflections of it. Like deflected rays of light becoming a rainbow, they will become less. Less color. Less joy. Less pride. I will take less pride in these smaller artworks, though artworks they are. They are only a sliver of shattered glass compared to an ornate mirror. A mirror that once reflected me.
Mar 7, 2025
Mar 7, 2025 at 9:59 PM UTC
Justice isn't enough. I want her blood, but I don't want it spilled on my child-like fingers. I want it washed off of them, with simple gentleness. The kindness she never bothered to save for her own flesh and blood. I want her blood to soak into a warm, wet washcloth, held in loving, caring hands.
I never wanted her blood! She put her blood on my hands, framing a child for a crime no one committed. She covered up her own atrocities by bleeding all over a small body with small hands that only wanted a hug. Some comfort. A mother.
So no. Justice will never be enough. Vengeance will never sate my rage. But sweet words may. And warm cuddles might. Maybe a hug from someone who isn't a bleeding blood relative will make up for what she did and didn't do.
Please, wash my hands. Wash off her sins, and let me have my childhood back. Cleanse my soul of her tainted blood, until the water runs clear.
Mar 7, 2025
Mar 7, 2025 at 9:58 PM UTC
She looks out the window silently. Despite the moon’s pale glow, she cannot see very far. She is thankful, for the world’s beauty on a moonlit night might convince her to stay. She turns to the chair. Here it sits, as it has sat for days. It has been waiting, building tension and anticipation, only encouraging her heinous act. She drags the chair to the desk, and starts writing. Words flow from her pen, and tears flow from her face like blood has flown from her wrists. She stops. Thinks. Carefully places one final period to end her words, her work, her worthless life. She drags the chair once more. It finds its place in the center of the room. She finds her place with God. And the poet wrote no more.
Mar 7, 2025
Mar 7, 2025 at 9:57 PM UTC
Like mushrooms, we are connected.
It is hard to see where one fungus stops.
And the next one starts.
The complex network of mycelium
Ties us all together at the root.
We grow from the mossy ground,
Unsure if we are a new being
Or just a new extension of the whole.
Regardless, we are each unique.
Distinguishable.
We stand alone as ourselves,
But we grow together as one.
Are we a family?
Or are we different organs of one organism,
Working in tandem, doing our part?
I suppose all these descriptions can coexist together.
We do work together, sharing resources,
Distributing based on need, not want.
We are a family of mushrooms.
Our spores share the same DNA
As they float through the air.
We are one with each other,
But we are also our own selves.
Mar 7, 2025
Mar 7, 2025 at 9:56 PM UTC
Moonlight casts a pale glow on the forest of five feet behind my house. It once stretched for miles, but now it doesn’t stretch at all. It’s confined to a thin strip of land, only five feet wide. It was my forest, a place of wonder and cryptids. Now it is a flat plain that deer solemnly walk across. They mourn the trees and grass, and the life it once held.
Mar 7, 2025
Mar 7, 2025 at 9:55 PM UTC
Sometimes you stain pages because the pain inside must be turned into art or more despair. The air in this room is too thick to breathe. I need to see the light but it never seems to come. Come with me? Come with me down a dark and winding path to places I shouldn’t go.
Mar 7, 2025
Mar 7, 2025 at 9:54 PM UTC
A tornado ripped through my house. It devastated my family. This freak of nature was no weather event. It was my own mother, as violent as any other natural disaster.
Mar 7, 2025
Mar 7, 2025 at 9:52 PM UTC