I wander through primordial moments
when the tapping of a keypad
becomes the substance of
standing on the floor naked.
****** is truth.
It is when the fabrics bought
from corporate stores no longer
disguise your carcass truth.
I find myself yelling like a
wounded animal dying.
Pretending that the icicles
shoved into my veins
are only secret encounters.
Nobody notices the contradiction
of white flesh dripping blood.
I hug the eggshells of words
that will not be silenced anymore.
They are my words. My truth.
Unlike the falsehoods that will
be contained in my obituary.
Vacant phrases that shall inform
of the dates and people connected
to my worldview. I shall not be
allowed to edit the content. Exposed
like a rock left on the grass.
Pick me up. Digest me. Tell
stories of things I did, embellished
as stories told tend to be.
In my coffin, I shall be naked
underneath the clothing. My
truth will be not be set free.

We are all **** bodies
fearful
of
confronting
our
truth.