i waited for grief to come
in floods,
in salt,
in a body emptied out by mourning.

but nothing came.
only fog.
fragments.
a static silence where you should have been.

disgust,
i’ve learned,
is a dry wound.
it does not weep.
it rots.

you called me fake?
dumb?
CRAZY?
as if snapping my bones
could stitch yours whole.

your words clung to my skin
like mould on damp walls.
i scrubbed.
scrubbed.
until i remembered:
“the rot was never mine.”

you spoke like a warden
locked me in isolation,
called it care.

captivity disguised as care.
and i, fool enough,
tried to call it love.

when my heart cracked open,
you entered like a thief,
shattering the mirror
where i kept myself safe.

i watched my life flash
past, present, all of me.
as you clawed at my reflection,
as if breaking me
could free you from yourself.

you were never batman.
but a boy in a paper mask,
reeking,
hoping shadows would hide your stink.

i don’t hate you.
hate needs blood,
and you’re not worth a cut.

what i feel is filth,
the stench of your voice in my throat,
the memory of lowering myself
to touch something already rotting.

you are not a loss.
you are THE DISGUST.
the shame i scrubbed off my skin,
the vermin i left behind
writhing in its own dirt.

called you batman, thought it’d fit
turns out you’re just the joke of it.

Guilt, guilt, guilt
As far as I can see

Weight, weight, wait!
Its crashing down on me

Shame upon my name
Rehabilitate with blame

Change, change, strange
Things still stay the same

It seems you lie to yourself,
Building up a fake world to fall back on.
Though, even if you do,
You at least have some level of dignity.
For if you brought these people here,
Only to rile things up,
You're disgusting.

Sometimes, you disgust me.

If anything,
I am as much as a hunter of evil as you.
Although I am no kingmaker,
No kingdom taker.
Ask yourself,
Did you fix a problem?
Or replace it.

Because in the face of paradise,
You disgrace it.

It doesn’t even feel good anymore;
there is no reason, nothing that makes it worth it.
There is nothing new in the feeling. In the action.
But like air, I still need it. I still do it.
Do it on repeat like a song on a CD-player that has already grown old
but got stuck months ago.

When I do it, I feel disgusted. Disgusted with myself.
Disgusted with my life.
But know what? It’s better than not doing it—
than letting the thoughts invade my heart;
than letting the thoughts take hold of my arms,
make them move without my permission.
I prefer this numbness— this disgust—
over living in my own body; the shed it has become.

trapped in body i don’t own
mourning what i could’ve been
by each day i feel more and more alone
this world has never seen anything like me
i see the world a little differently
searching my pockets for a dime
it has became a routine
i just wanna live peacefully
but that’s hard when you’re not sitting in a limousine
but instead you’re sitting in a body thats not your own.
i tried to fix myself
but now i’m all torn
my skin is harsh, brittle
but still i might be getting there
little by little
something’s telling me to lean towards substances
if its broken it has to be destroyed,
its me who’s broken
even though i’ve sewn my cut up skin
the scars just won’t disappear

The smell of fresh oranges
Hit my nose
I look down
You pick and pull at the peel

The underside of your fingernails
Have residue
As you poked and stabbed
At the pure fruit

But don’t worry
You’ll be able to wash your hands
From the sweet juice
Yet the smell will always linger, somewhere

You see me starring from above
My face of utter disgust
As blood drips down my thighs
And I lay paralyzed.

How can someone sexualize,
The way a woman sits?
It's just a funny selfie pose,
I don't want to hear this,
"Is she bad or nah" nonsense.
How creepy is that,
Most men will idolize the simple way,
A woman speaks.
When will we be gone with these creeps?
How ashamed am I,
That a grown man will focus,
On dress coding your shoulders,
While men run rampant with tattoos and drug tee's.

I hate valentine's day,
Not because I hate to love.
But I hate how the pink heart holiday,
Is turning money green.

With the foolish new loves running around,
Wave a dollar in my face.
Write me a love poem for my girl!
Keep your money in your pants.
I won't take it,
How would I be if I chose to butcher art for money?

So I guess what they say is true,
The less words on this page,
The less thoughts on my face,
The less I write the better.