What a cacophony of a man.
You inhale upon your sagged cigarette in a banal matter to bind together your facade of a nonchalant man.
Man man man..
What makes you a man? I see you and your gratuitous gestures, but what defines the substance of your manhood.
I'm going to take a drumy roll of the dice and suppose your ****** anatomy is the typical sad prune like elephant of your fellow males. You keep on insisting through your bolstering language that you are a man. "I am a man *******!" Your words go launching out of your unrolled jangy car window.
Is that all it takes? You simply yawp out these proclamations and it makes them true?
Well then, I suppose every fellow that has cut me off in the treading pool of traffic, bares resemblance to a donkey.

When the topic of conversation in class was about finding meaning in life
I struggled to find a reasoning behind why
I choose to keep fighting
the same **** voice that keeps on illuminating
the parts of my heart that don't need extra lighting
For reasons of staying safe
secure enough to keep from igniting
any other demons that make joy seem uninviting

My heart is tired of trying
to heal

My feelings boil over
like a *** of forgotten water
forcing me to clean up a mess that I did not ask for
I am tired
But still refuse to be fired from life itself

Why do I keep fighting
If my life is not something I admire

I have sisters who wage wars on their bodies too
trying to reach a place where they feel like they are somebody to some body
and not a disease
that strips them of all they were created to be
We are tired

Yet I ride waves of urges so familiar to the ocean of darkness that my heart rages
because I just want to feel free
because my future family and clients need me
because honesty is the key to living authentically
And if I'm being honest then I'm able to see
past the reality
that is my eating disorder

I desire more
which means that I am more
as my worth does not come from being the best me for others
but rather it comes from a deep understanding
that my life is my own and not my own
equally

Realizing that my hands are strong enough
are big enough to hold
even the pieces of my soul
that fail to fit the mold
of what is normal

But why can't normal have permission to be broken
Instead of whole

A bottle smiled at me today
I smiled back.

the fire you built
to keep us warm
is burning me to death.

.
          
           am i
 here
  why        
        pollut-
                              ing          
                                 the
                                 space
                            that
                    could
                 be
              used
                for
                 a
                        (better candidate than me)
                 ?

I am not easy with my words
I do not think, do not ponder, do not wait 5 seconds
I speak
I speak bitterness and enmity
The words flow out of me like blocks of cement
Like cannons, like bullets
Leaving wounds, leaving blood
I have found I am a lot like a body of water
The ocean for example is beautiful looking at it from the shore
But the farther down you go the darker and more grisly it gets
Or perhaps I am like a river
The problem with rivers is they look calm on the surface but underneath they're unpredictable, full of chaos and this is like most people
This is how nature proves visible in seemingly miniscule aspects of our lives
This is how nature destroys itself
This is how we dig our own graves
This is where the story is not so sweet anymore
There is a time and place for everything
There are words for each situations
Ones that fit the puzzle just right, leaving just enough space for comfort
I do not know these places, I do not know these words
I only know cement