I'm on the wrong side
Of the right side.

I'm stuck on the outside,
Even when I'm inside.

I'm on the bad side
Of the good side.

Out of the bad guys,
I'm the sad type.

a very disjointed woman, but a woman nonetheless--
then i realised i still hadn't answered the question, because femininity is a lifelong ache

though.. an ache i can deal with these days, as opposed to
the way it would shoot through my veins and corrupt my heart
i apologise for being a product of my own suffering  
i really am sorry for only writing good poetry when the knife cuts deep
you have no idea how much i'd like to convince you i'm deep

in
rehabilitation from phantasms, but the truth is
right now i'm a woman that can only speak on anguish
because she doesn't feel it
numbs herself to it because she isn't real; or
a jagged piece of what she used to be (she's! not! me!)

if i allow myself to digress,
no words would make it to the surface
they all get eaten up by the beast in my belly
and spat back out as another ghost of the self

who am i outside of that vicious cycle?

There is nothing more to say than "hello".
Expanding its breadth,
The sun waves,
And I smile back.
"Hello"

Outside my door is a world where once I did dwell.
But through my window now I see a living hell.
I moved among that place and the people living there.
But now I cannot enter it without feelings of despair.
I cannot tell to you exactly what changed inside of me.
But I can no longer fit within the shape I used to be.
Did the window I once looked through view another place?
I ponder what I see and note changes to that space.
Outside used to make sense and I joined it with true lust.
But now it holds no value and no truths that I can trust.
Sometimes I have to enter there that place outside my door.
But nothing familiar awaits me there at least nothing that I saw.
The people there can see me and I feel their judging glare.
Always trying to remind me that I am alien when I am there.
When I get home and feel relief by the sealing of my door.
I make a vow to myself not to trespass outside space no more.
With much anxiety transpired through the yessing and the no.
When days have passed and once again to outside I must go.
So difficult to think of outside and I once dwelling there.
Opening doors and passing through seemingly without a care.
Passing through so many times in the blinking of an eye.
Not dithering and putting off as days and days go by.
To relate this sense to you may leave your mouths agape.
But its those things outside that dented me this new shape.