I stare at this form,
This cursed effeminate object.
I trace my fingers over soft skin,
Halting at the bumps on it.
The fingers gouge them out,
Mindlessly ripping the imperfections away.
I graze it again,
Only to extract more skin.
Pieces of flesh under my nails,
Small blood drops form in place of the bump.
I see my form beneath the shed layers.
My angelic, ****** form
Finally breathes the air of this world.
I pull more and more,
Once mere crumbs of flesh become chunks.
Slowly freeing my holiness
From the cage of flesh around me.
The blood runs down my face,
Now tattered and gone.
I stare at myself.

The stains won't leave me,
Cracked paint against the drywall
Of my childhood bedroom.
The ****** t-shirt,
Dyed a brown-red to hide the stains.
Spilled paint from a failed project
On the knee of my jeans,
Covered with a pretty floral patch.
They like how it looks,
The new color I had to choose,
Only one that would cover the failures.
It's so pretty and unique,
So nice to look at isn't it?
I add patches that others like.
I'm not so sure that I like them.
At least not as much as they do,
The ones who gave me the stains.

Why should I care
If my useless parts hurt?
Why would It matter
If they fell off?
Why can’t I hurt them
If they are so wrong?
Why should I see a doctor
If they should rot?

In a way, I’m ashamed.
No one should have to see them,
Care for them.
Care for them like I never did.
They are dreadful,
Deformed, rotten, scarred.
Something so alien,
That I must rid myself of them.
They cursed me,
Cursed me to a life of deformity,
Self hate, disgust, pain.

By normal standards they’re useless.
They hurt, not even serving a function.
Barely aesthetic for a lover,
Completely foreign to me.
I hide them.
No one should have to bear witness
To this cursed form I reside in.
Free me from this flesh,
This broken, scarred frame.
Built wrong and improper.
With corrupt systems,
My crooked vessel fails.

No one sees the useless old thing,
Perhaps a trophy from an old hunting trip,
Or a once prized possession of a collector.
Anything you can think of may fit,
But we all know what it was:
A plain old barn owl collecting dust
Upon the shelf of some antique store.
Killed and stuffed as decoration,
Passed around by its previous owners,
Re-gifted endlessly due to its unsettling gaze.
No one cared as its body ceased moving,
And its wonderful feathers became drenched
In its blood and the dew upon the grass.
Forever the bird will be posed upon its stand.
A whisper of its former freedom and glory.
No one will see how it should've been,
Only what it is now:
In the corner of the antique store collecting dust.

I was at a funeral today,
Second one this month.
Through tears and forced smiles,
Sobs and heavy breathing,
They loved her.
She was a lovely woman,
A mom, grandma, friend, wife.
A giver, a lover, a ray of life.

At my funeral, what would they say?
Would they tell the truth?
One who never could be pinned down?
Bringer of medical bills, stress, and tears?
An abomination, soiled by its own hand?
A parasite, just another expense?

I made them laugh, sure.
I served some purpose,
At least until I grew.
I was sweet, loving, forgiving, forgetting.
I took every hit, every threat,
Unmoving, sitting perfectly still.
A lamb on an altar,
Pristinely white and harmless.
Not flinching from the blade.

Growing up was my worst crime.
I grew bitter and spiteful.
Screaming the truth,
Daring to make a scene.
I publicly destroyed myself,
Rehashing wounds for others to see.
Dirt covered my wounds, infecting them.
Years of scars build upon each other,
My skin boiling and warping into this beast,
This abomination.

So tell me,
At my funeral, am I just another daughter?
Another friend, grandchild, niece, lamb?
Or am I the infected, maggot-covered son I am?
A disgusting filthy mutt, baring my teeth?

I am holding up a mirror,
A mirror to how I was treated.
Do you not like seeing yourself?
Yourself in your own sacrificial lamb?

Don’t lie at my funeral.
Tell them who I really was,
A ****** lamb, a soiled sacrifice.
Once perfect, harmless prey,
Now decrepit and tattered.
I am ruined, I am violent, utterly horrid.

I have never heard a love song
That reminded me of you.
No words can describe your love,
Your eyes, your smile, your laugh.

They write these love songs,
Ones that never describe us well.
Always a man and a woman,
Usually nothing that we feel.

I want to write a love song,
One about only us.
To paint what we have,
A picture beyond human imagination.

I can't write a love song
That does you justice.
You are far too beautiful for words,
And too breath-taking for music.

A love song for you would be impossible,
You are too lovely for words.
Even in poems I am stuck,
Rambling about you, but never enough.

I am rotting beneath this house,
Under the floorboards lies my form.
Pieces strewn around recklessly,
The walls, the attic, the garage.

I feel the maggots over my fragmented body.
They chew at the regrowing flesh.
Preventing me from stirring,
At least enough to push them off.

I try to reform my flesh back into a heap,
But the maggots tear me back apart.
I hear their whispers against my bones,
It was not tasty, not filling, not enough.

Yet they wont let me leave.
Only allowing me to sit still in silence,
Being devoured,
Devoured by the growing hoard of maggots.

I am a nameless creature so fluid,
Never the same from day to day.
I pinned myself down too soon,
On a whim I named myself.
It was the wrong time for it,
I was not ready and didn't think.
Now I am 17,
No longer the scared 13 year old I was.
The name I chose was wrong.
My parents detested it too much,
And it just wasn't mine.
I know no name shall feel like mine,
Not more than a few months,
But that's okay with me.
I will pin myself down again,
My name is now Max.
It may stick,
It may not.

Wandering around the market,
Full of nothing and lacking
The kind of humanity I used to have.
My eye caught by the red-pink
Of the raw meat in a glass case.

I found myself staring at it,
Almost a familiar sight.
Thinking nothing of it at all,
I continued staring.
Something about it stuck to me.

The way the white fat ran through
Pink and red muscle tissue.
The big areas of redness struck me,
Slightly jagged and misshapen.
And juice pooling under it.

The animal was given no thought,
Not other than how it served people.
Its body parts were nothing more than dishes,
Ones for the pleasure of the strong to eat.
There were no animals in this market.

Here laid the former cows,
Their parts separated and sorted.
How convenient to be on display,
To be freshly cleaned and wrapped.
No pieces flawed or ruined.

Oh to be a slab of meat,
Nothing of your former self,
Born to die to feed people,
Or thrown out once you've gone bad.
I suppose I am not far from it.

Oh how I dream of us.
I imagine you purely you,
Among your dreams
And among mine.
You, my muse.
Me, yours.
How artful would it be?

I picture you entirely,
Captured still in photos,
In paintings, in sculptures.
I, in your writing,
In fabric, in drawings.
You are my art,
I am yours.

Cold hands trace my body,
Places I never want to see.
Locks break, defence falls.
No one saw me,
The way I kicked, grabbed, cried.

My only witnesses were the shadows.
From my nightmares to my protectors,
They were behind me,
A distraction, a comfort.
I named my shadow,
A kind boy, a big brother,
One who could protect me.
A brother like I should have been.
He held my hand,
Helped me redress and collect my thoughts,
Scared the memories away.

I want to thank him.
But my shadow has long gone.
He is a part of me now.
I thought I lost, but I gained.
I learned my own comfort,
My own love, my own hero.
No one can hurt us,
My brother won’t allow it.

The way you held me hurt
In ways I can't describe.
You tore my arms, legs, back,
The rips growing deeper
With each **** meeting.
You stared at the tears in my skin,
Proud of yourself, aroused.
You scraped your claws over them,
Pulling them wider, prettier.
You pleased yourself, admiring your work.
I was perfect for you.
Sitting still and letting you disfigure me,
My body was not mine.
I was yours, signature and all,
Deep etchings in my skin
The same etchings I carve off,
only to grow them back.
You made me carve your name,
Over, and over, and over.
My fingers dull and numb,
Digging deeper for you to see,
For you to admire.
Though I was never enough.
Not close to satisfying your hunger.
Never a day passed
Where I would not dread seeing you.

This dreadful old woman yells on her phone,
All her hate echoing through her trailer.
Nothing is enough for her high "standards."
Always too little or too much talking.

She laughs a rancid, wheezy laugh,
Poking fun at the less fortunate and disabled.
Slurs are a part of her daily vocabulary,
Towards others, towards her own grandchild.

Despite being a woman she hates them,
Wishes they would stay home, out of her way.
"Women shouldn't drive, shouldn't lead, shouldn't..shouldn't..."
She sees herself exempt from those rules.

She lounges on her couch,
Scrolling on her one-of-many smart phones,
Insulting others for even daring to look at a screen,
While the small blue screen lights her wrinkles.

Lies and hate blast from the TV,
All are pale privileged men full of hate,
The only ones she listens to.
They preach their superiority over all.

She loosely holds her vape,
Between her rough and bony fingers.
Somehow convinced it's not smoking.
While vapors surround her and cloud the air.

Anyone and everyone different is her enemy,
You must be a white, Christian,
Republican, straight, cis, able bodied,
Citizen to gain any respect from this wretched woman.

The truth is only what she likes,
Only what she agrees with.
She closes her ears to logic and empathy,
She feeds on the hate of those like her.

I do not like my grandmother.

I am not sure why I did it,
Well that's what I'm going to say
Once I get caught with it.

Because we all know it'll happen.
I know why I stole the thing,
It's not very simple to explain:

The memories wouldn't stop,
I wanted some control over my life,
The urge needed to be fulfilled,

But the general, easy explanation:
I wanted to do it,
I have waited so long.

It's not like me to steal,
At least that's what they think.
I've thought about this for so long.

I contemplate doing many things:
So many horrible things,
Things I'd rather die than do.

I want to scream and cry,
Throw things, flip tables,
Show them how I really feel.

But I don't,
I keep up my reputation,
Smile through all of it.

I don't let anyone know,
If they knew half of it,
I would have no one.

The funny part about this
Is that I don't regret it at all,
I know I should.

I don't regret it,
Relief instantly washed over me,
Like the sick being I am.

Claws rip me inside-out
The path of my spine allows it.
I look up at myself
Surgery scars, shaky limbs,
Pale skin, scabs, and veins.
I’m slouched over, limp
As fire burns through my bones.
The room is spinning through,
my heart is falling out of my chest
My lungs struggle and shake.
The paramedic questions me,
I see his blurred figure through tears.
They connect the wires,
Words fail me this time.
Sweat is dripping down my body
Cold needles caress me.
This is going to be a long night.

He doesn't hear me right now.
Too busy playing games,
The ones more entertaining than me.
He doesn't look at me,
Doesn't speak, doesn't listen, doesn't care.

I know I am useless,
He drilled it into me from day one.
My words mean nothing to him.
I have stupid hobbies, stupid wants.
Nothing about me is worthy of him.

I look down at myself.
I know what gets his attention,
My dignity drops along with my pants.
He looks at me for the first time in days.
I am finally spoken to.

His words slice me.
He calls me what I am: disgusting,
Desperate, useless, horrible.
But most importantly: I am his.
I am nothing without his approval.

But at the same time he worships me.
The only approval I've gotten,
Only when I am exposed in front of him.
My only worth is my body parts,
The ones I so desperately hate.

He does what he wants,
I have no choice but to let him.
I have no one else who sees me.
Even if he only sees me for what I am;
a tool for his enjoyment.

How can they say what MY nature is?
That what I was born with dictates my temperament.
I must nurture and endure the pain,
Allowing my body to be distorted and bloated,
All for some husband to have a mini-him,
And to add to my constant laboring.
Men socialized to treat a wife like a mother,
Coddled and fawned over by her,
Allowed to come back from work to a home cooked meal,
While their wife's endless work never ceases.

Today was harder than usual.
As I sit surrounded by friends,
My descent into hell begins.
It starts at the base of my bony spine,
"Nothing more than a sting,"
I say. "Nothing more.."

The burning pain crawls higher,
A wildfire spreads up the mountain of my ribs.
"Just a sting, its just a sting.."
I feel my body sink into the seat,
My head drooping to the table.

Burning tears form in my eyes,
Rusted razors crowd my throat,
As the searing pain burns through my body.
I heave and shake,
My friends heads turn.

I can't move a muscle,
At least no more than a twitch.
My friends call my name,
pat my back,
try to get a response.

I can't hear a word,
But my ears crackle and burst.
My heartbeat slams my rib cage,
In an attempt to escape.
It is too late.

Groans escape me,
I claw the desk with my trembling hands.
The wildfire spreads,
Hips, chest, shoulders, neck, head.
My mind scratches the walls of my skull,
Trying to find an way out.

I hold the papers in front of me,
Now soaked with tears,
Trying to grab hold of anything.
Anything that will pull me out
of the wildfire in my bones.