you can
pick me apart
piece by piece.

I promise you
that I can
handle the pain.

experiment on me,
sedate me,
cut me open
and study me.
I can take it.

all I ask is that
when you put me
back together again,
please leave my trauma
out on the operating table.

you are not the first man
to take off my clothes,

but you are the first man
to see me naked while
my clothes are still on.

if I die,
I know that my eulogy
would be read aloud
by my biological family
with tears in their eyes
and sad, solemn voices.

it’s scary to think
that if I die,
my eulogy would be read
by the same people who
once wished for my death.

he said, “stop apologizing.”

it’s a bad habit of mine.
I apologize even when
I know I’m not at fault.

he said, “stop apologizing.”

I didn’t even realize I was.
it’s an automatic response that
I’ve been programmed to use.

he said, “stop apologizing.”

I tried to notice when it happened,
but it’s not an easy habit
to unlearn after years of training.

he said, “seriously, stop apologizing.”
I said “I’m sorry.”