Give me an address
of someone who cares.

Give me the referral
to make them let me in.

Give me the money
to pay them for caring.

I’m begging you, pleading:

Give me what it takes
to make the pain go away.

All I knew is gone now,
I think.

Even the place I slept at night
is barren and strange.
Lights shine in windows,
but inside it is silent.

Even the people I called friends
are as distant to me
as dry spires in a desert,
breaking the shifting horizon.

Even my own beautiful eyes
betray no emotion to me:
only the puzzled gaze
of a stranger I thought I knew.

Each day, the horrid insects return.
They pull me
downwards, away from all I know.

Ten thousand tiny wings,
thirty thousand minuscule legs.
They drag me,
body buzzing with the life they give
into the twilight of dysfunction.

The slow, bulbous doubts, the ghastly
creeping terrors, the venomous dreads
and spindly, chitinous uncertainties.
They eat me
Gnawing away at everything I am,
Until I look in the mirror and do not see
A familiar face staring back.

So I **** them all, without mercy,
Until not a membranous wing still beats.
I flood their wretched exoskeletons
With the cleansing, toxic mists of
Insecticide.
I drown myself in the poison, pushing
away the deep dark and swimming upwards
towards the gentle, comforting light of day.
My head breaks the surface, gasping.

But as I breathe deep, I do not turn back
To see the trail of butterflies
Floating dead among the carnage.

I often wonder
if snowflakes feel
themselves falling
or if the world
simply
rises among them.

It doesn’t matter
who others want you to be
We love you
for your beautiful smile
for your happiest laugh
for your most endearing quirks

It doesn’t matter
what box you were put in.
We love you
for the joy you impart
for the comfort you give
for the caring you receive

It doesn’t matter to us
what’s between your legs
We love you
for how you think
for how you touch our lives
for how you change the world

All that matters
is that you be yourself
Your place can be found
only by looking in your heart

That morning, I picked mushrooms.
They were red, almost round
like a tomato, with little white flecks
clinging to their domed caps.
Their earthy smell filled my nostrils
when I pulled them from the damp,
sandy soil, pine needles still clinging
to their sticky surface.
I was so excited for my find.
I was so thrilled to show them off.

But then you burst through my joy,
tore my dreams from my tired fingers,
and tossed them into the dumpster
with my harvest. I felt alone. I felt
unheard by those sworn to love me.
I lay in my bed unmoving, my spirit
screaming in pain and sadness.
I just wanted the pain to end.

You’re not sorry for what you did.
You hold no remorse for the fresh
red mushrooms you destroyed,
the irrevocable time you squandered,
the suffering and shame you caused.
I cannot argue with you: in your mind
you are absolutely in the right.

To you, I am a possession. A tool.
A doll god gave you to command,
unwillingly sworn to obedience.
I try so hard to hate you, but
I cannot hate someone who truly
believes that they love me,
even as they beat my soul down.

But someday I will rise to my feet,
look you in the eye devoid of fear,
and fate will compel you to reap
the harvest which you have sown.
In your eyes, I know I will see only
unwavering self-righteousness,
and the conviction that you
have done me nothing but good.

It makes me sick.