You are not the width of your hips
You are not the shade of your skin
You are not the fabrics in your closet
You are not the electronics that you own
You are not the papers in your wallet
You are not what you possess
You are not what you look like

You are the songs that you sing to in the shower
You are the shows that you stay up watching
You are the books that you read for hours
You are the poems and stories you make
You are the art you create, the strokes of your fingers
You are the subjects in school you enjoy learning
You are the dreams you have for tomorrow
You are the people you look up to
You are the friends you spend Friday nights with
You are the boys that you kiss
You are how you talk to your parents
You are what you love
**You are how you love

I.

The pen
Taps
Against my leadened desk,
All reverberating echoes and
Roaring staccatos:

Something to keep the soldiers
Rooted
In the chalkboard trenches alive-

A cackling reminder of
Freedom.

II.

Peeled away is the blissful world of
Morphine-addled haze
And round edges

The smell of pine trees
And Monday Vendetta.

Up in smoke.
Offered to the gods.
The great big furnace in the sky—

I carry them with me in an ashen urn.

As the days pass
A rhythmic stutter
Lumps
At the bottom of my throat.

I heard you tossed sinners to the flame.

I was in disbelief until I smelled my soul roasting on a spit.

I know that purgatory doesn't exist.
Hell far worse than nothingness.

I know that all torture is godless,
Not all pain meant to temper.

As I screamed, you told me to
Look up.