the people around me,
i’ve seen them shedding skin like it’s so natural, so human;
as if growing was as simple as breathing,
as if your reflection was never supposed to show you
struggling to stay inside your body
as if you didn’t belong inside of you.
as if you could grow with your body,
unlike the bones i wore on my exterior.
maybe that’s why, of late, i haven’t been feeling human at all.
maybe that’s why growing feels so much more
like breaking this exoskeleton that refuses to acquiesce,
refuses to let me get out of this unscathed.
it leaves me ravenous and pathetic.
my skin wanting to consume Your flesh was no act of romance,
but a denial of who i am.
this calling, this crepuscular craving of identity
caves its way into my conscience.
for i have words that come by every some time,
knocking, begging to be let in,
but there’s no keyhole in my door and the **** lost its will so long ago.
moments past the gloam,
a nocturnal sacrifice,
i moult until the shards of dawn cut away
at the failure of synthesizing a decorous skeleton,
at the loathing that follows the inadequacy of my individuality,
at the wounds of dissension,
and i am left
asphyxiated, bleeding, catatonic,
with the grief of old bones broken, just like the new will break again