Low density,

not mostly empty

but empty nonetheless.

No definite edge

—strange for a world obsessed

with curves and edges.

We are but clustered atoms,

modest specks of particles;

we are free-thinking atoms,

and well-aware that we are.

My world began, and like everybody else,

I was in one piece;

a piece made up of clustered atoms

—free-thinking.

My craving sight,

longing to be fed;

longing to digest

an uncharted world in my mind,

not mostly empty.

The swaying room

On the wall, sunflowers are drawn

flailing under the withering sun,

waltzing with the strolling breeze,

beautiful, I thought

perfect, I thought.

It was a time when I cannot see atoms for what they are;

not mostly empty;

not mosiaced,

but in one piece.

That day we weren’t just atoms;

we were sent off to the swaying room;

we were wailing seals when our folks left

us at the care of our teachers.

A kid who sat across the table pointed his finger at my face and opened his mouth and out came the three words, ‘You are ugly.’

‘No, I’m not.’

Yes you are and so is everyone in your family.

I smiled and the more he teased me.

Ugly! Ugly! Ugly!

Lost my innocence when I was five;

no longer a ****** from the cruelty of
this world of clustered atoms.
Exit the womb at your peril,
lest, endowed with consciousness;
should have been told;
should have erred on the side of innocence
tucked under a placenta.

So began a world like everybody else;

low density,
not mostly empty
but empty nonetheless.
A world obsessed with curves and edges;
with shapes and sizes;
with colors and advantages.

Dragons are real; this much I know.
My mom used to tell me to ignore them.

As if on cue,
as soon as the school bells rang
their tongues loll out of their mouths to utter the word ‘ugly.’
The bells a stimuli
for their rabid mind.
Even at night they were cicadas in my mind’s
lawn,
chirping cutting words,
a cause of insomnia.
We were walls,
vandalized by juvenile,
nay primitive free-thinking.
Our pain covered in graffiti.

For so long we were made to believe,
the defects,
the blemishes,
the scars,
made us ugly,
all along it was their eyes.
Words have stimulated casualties
those whose souls leaped out to limbo;
souls who bought the idea that suicide
will make the torment cease;
maybe it did; maybe not,
what of the bereaved?
Words can be the longest noose.
For fear of seeing something unmeant
we set visitation hours
when we come to check ourselves in the mirror.

We wander;
we wonder,
as we navigate our way out of this labyrinth;
out of this house of distorted reflections,
we have the mistaken impression
that our images are warped,
in truth we are warped by the impressions
of us.

Sometimes we have to squint,
to view ourselves from a vantage
point where we can be beautiful;
where we don’t feel awful;
where we don’t have to take pills;
where we don’t have to dawdle eating waffles in the morning to avoid the hurt;
to avoid the prescription bottles.
People often find ways to medicate the hurt,
but not the hurtful.

Low density,
not mostly empty
but empty nonetheless.
No definite edge
how can these atoms relate words of hate?

A face cannot wear beauty,
only those who make this world a beautiful place for everyone deserves to be called beautiful.
Perhaps atoms feel better
seeing other atoms collapse.