I think it's trash
that society makes me feel like a *****
for getting angry,
for being brash.

I think it's sick
that I'm ****** for saying
words like
***** and ****.

I think it's a waste
that I'm looked down on
for saying jokes
in bad taste.

I think it's insane
that I'm considered
too fat, too ugly, too masculine,
and am forced to feel shame.

I think it's a tragedy
that as a woman I have to
undo and unlearn
me.

There is a poetic irony
in being a victim.
It's an art, a skill
honed by abuse.
And the victim learns to be
one of two things.
The victimized, the oppressed,
or
the abuser, the user.

You practice
a higher art.
You can be
both.

It's amazing
how people
love the things
that
hurt them.

You can be my ball of wax.
I'll roll you between my fingertips
until you're warmed and soft
and I can mold you.
Some are impressionists
or modernists
but I wanted to be a
realist.
So I made you in the image
of my reality.
Only I made you
taller,
kinder,
handsomer,
sweeter.
I shaped you
with so much
self-deception
and so much
failed perception.

You can be my boy of wax.
I made you in the winter
and you were strong
and solid
for a time.
But the summer came and you grew
smaller,
shorter,
quieter,
farther,
and you,
my artful manipulation
of
what I so
wanted
to create,
melted.

You can be my pool of wax,
a shapeless
well
of malformed memories
that change
with every touch.
I curl my knees to
my chest and
do my best to stop
prying and prodding you,
my pool of wax.
Because with every touch
it burns
my skin and turns
my fingers
an angry red.

I made you,
and I never
knew
that
a boy of wax
could unmake
me.