living is a pain,

tiring,
boring,
inane.

when they ask
"would you give your life away?"
i close my eyes and force the answer.
"no"

living is a pain,

tedious,
delirious,
insane.

when they ask
"how are you doing today?"
i close my eyes and force a laugh.
"the same"

living is a pain,

laborious,
arduous,
inhumane.

when they ask
"would you give your life away?"
i close my eyes, too tired to pretend.
"yes"

the human race:

divided between male, female, neither

yet why do i not identify as either?

instead i am a combination of all,

convoluted,

messy,

confused.

the sight of myself in my mirror makes me want to puke.

chest,

hips,

thighs.

undeniably, irrevocably,

female.

"you're so pretty!"

the thought makes my skin crawl.

she, her, hers,

never fit me at all.

maybe i could be male,

yet that does not feel right either.

he, him, his,

makes the skin on my bones fit a little bit better.

maybe i could be neither?

yet that still does not feel quite right.

they, them, theirs,

about as fitting as an overgrown sweater.

i identify with all of them,

but all at different times.

makes me feel better,

knowing that i'm not a new find.

(the Japanese art of fixing pottery with gold)

you filled in my cracks, my flaws, my imperfections,

with gold,

so that the scars latticed across my skin shone.

you made me beautiful,

made me perfect,

and deemed me your work of art.

they knew you ripped me apart

sewed me together again and called it mercy

but did not applaud any less

"beautiful scars" they said.

beautiful, yes,

but broken nonetheless.