We see our fathers as Gods,
Our mothers as tourniquets
Knotted at the scathings
Our Gods have given us.
Are we gifted or are we at fault?

She makes me wish
That I were twenty years older
With an extra letter to my name
And the solace of owning you
Deep in my heart.

*** sickens me as an artifact,
A cruel twisting of the womb;
An androgynous vein
Bursting out of a wealth of shame.

They tell you not to soak
A new tattoo for two weeks time
But these wounds, these ethereal,
Spiritual tattoos of mine
Have been festering under water
For a lifetime.

If only the ink
Of the pen
Of my past
Could just bleed

Out.

I would ****** my arm
Above the water's edge
If only I could be certain
That you would save me.

How old were you
When you realized
That your friends
Were slowly disappearing?
Waxing,
Tracing the moon across their fingertips
As they dissolved into stardust?

I am twenty one years old
And I am the loneliest
I have ever been.