the fangs are sheathed within the words,
claws sharpened on the broken dreams of others,
there are always casualties when it comes to humans,
monsters you can prepare for, humans are another story,
there is always something to lose when it comes to humans,
monsters you can recognize by their skin,
humans never show the skin hidden behind a mask,
i'll always choose a pair of yellowed fangs,
the pearly white teeth trick the mind into vulnerability.
I have purpose
I am
We are human
Kind, I am
What’s the point of running if they always catch you?
What’s the point of hiding if they always find you?
What’s the point of seeing if they always ruin the sight?
What’s the point of hearing if they always talk about you?
What’s the point of talking if they always drown you out?
What’s the point of being human if they always  alienate you?
What’s the point of tomorrow if they always say, “tomorrow is yesterday’s today”?
What’s the point of living if they always take your life away?
If being human causes this pain, then what’s the point?
I was thinking about human essence and this came out.
(Content warning - Strong Language)

Look up those stories,
especially the fun ones,
where people quit their jobs
with a "kiss my ass" to the boss
or a dance routine,
middle fingers up in the air
as they prance right out the door.
Usually some inciting experience,
a sleazy boss coping a feel
or a co-worker screaming over
something arbitrary
why didn't you replace the fucking coffee filter,
sets off the invisible fuse
of the time bomb that is in
a directionless weekend warrior.

Mine wasn't like that.
I wonder about those people for being
like a cannonball,
explosive and loud
leaving an immediate impact
before flying away across the horizon.
I was more like a statue by the sea,
the waves and storms
swirling by, often crashing over my head
while chips of stone erode away
little by little
until one day they viewed the shore and
oh yeah, it's been that long? He was slipping away.

It went like this.
The papers in my desk
are a bit of a mess,
typical of any day.
But this wasn't a typical day
and a mole hill was a mountain.
Mandatory training was painstaking,
typical of usual training.
But this wasn't typical training,
and I could almost see
the potential of life wither away.
An irate coworker
is just part of the job sometimes,
typical obstacle to the weekly grind.
But this wasn't a typical obstacle,
and their problem seemed
insignificant as I tasted bile.

Did you know we spend more
of our awake time with our co-workers
than our own friends or family?

I whispered to my stapler,
a memory from some nonsensical
training on respecting co-workers
who could give two shits about me or you.
Am I the only one who sees how
completely disturbing that is?

What the fuck are you doing then?
asked the stapler.
Well, it had me there.
So, I put in my two weeks,
grit my teeth,
and walked out the door
with no fanfare but the smile on my face.
I wasted enough time waiting.
I don't know where I'm going,
I don't know where I'll be.
But it won't be a typical destination.
And here is my contribution to
the map of human unhappiness.
Tell me, the reddish hug
of a distant horizon around us
- one more time

when we took the grace
of the world, with open
arms and mind

and we held hands
for others to see.

Tell me all of that, before
I depart from my body
to see

how you treat my shell
until it loses the final
power to breath.
I'm no comic-book character
Gender-less action figure
No superhero or villain or neutral god
I forget about what's between my legs
Corporeal, despite my best efforts
of self-deception
I recoil at the figure in the mirror
The unrealistic reality is disproportionate
Ideal or not, chemicals make me human.
When human being sounds alien

I want to be called Woman
One day
I met a man
tall, lanky, and grey.
He would smile
if someone looked at him,
his hands moving
in every direction
when he would talk,
his legs shivering
from the weight
of his shoulders.
He would fidget
with his clothes
trying to perfect them,
scratching his beard
picking it apart
hair by hair,
sweating his heart out
sitting in an
air-conditioned room,
but his eyes,
his eyes had something.
As if,
they were tired
from the all grief
he had been carrying
not shedding any
part of it
as if a mannequin
came to life,
As if,
his eyes were tired
of the weight of
the tears he had been
carrying all this time.
He learned all his life,
how to be a good man,
how to be a good son
how to be a good friend,
but one thing he couldn't learn,
how to face his grief.
One thing he couldn't learn
is how to be more human.
Because it's only human
to grieve, cry, and then
be able to feel other things.
It's only human
to be human.
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