My vision is horizontal
up to 250 degrees
an open visor

of the wide world and all
of myself, except
what is most me: my face

so I have only a faint idea
of who people see
when they see me

Their reactions are familiar to me
yes, I am who I am
but a stranger to myself

and as time goes by
I am less and less
my inner image

Garlanded by hearts,

by stars and thumbs-up I am --


who I think I am.

(maybe this time it will feel different, different)
(maybe this time it will go different, different)
my last few rounds//i've come back out
more worse for wear than before i began
(maybe this time i will feel different, cherished)
(maybe this time i won't feel like such an object)
i know that you said//what you liked in bed
and what you spoke as their hands caressed
sounds of your voice crying and moaning
whispering all those little things to me
"you're so beautiful. you're so ****
"you are exactly the kind that i need
"you're so pretty. i love your shape
"and how warm you feel underneath me
"you are so perfect. you're desirable
"i love every thing about'cha
"you feel so good. you turn me on
"your skin is so soft and inside is so warm
i can't think//with all these things
filling up the space in my head
(maybe this time i will feel different, different)
(maybe this time it will go different, different)
i wasn't ready for being intimate
i can tell the way i still think about it
mess up her skin, her muscle, her bone
make her every part undesirable
twist and rend and crush and scratch
until she's not worth looking at
she let it happen then, so now i decay
thinking all of this every single day
i hate her i hate her god i hate her so much
cut her out of me until the face in the mirror is mine
and not hers
i hate how she sounds, how she looks, how she feels
her flesh is mine and it will be hell
dont look please dont look no touching or grabbing
dont hold or squeeze or bite or hug
i hate the curves
i hate your words
i hate everything that makes this life hers
cut her and cut her and tear all of the skin
so it heals and its ugly and not worth such sin
keep your lust for her, hold it, *******
dont ask for pictures or phonecalls or words
nothing to do with those who had her
she's a body. a nice one. what a horrible thing
i hate her i hate her i wish she hadn't been so weak
every thought is so hard to have im sorry i even feel this way and it was never your fault. never your bad. i let it happen to her. she let it happen, even through the shudders and whimpers and cringing away, she let it happen. weak. weak and small and easy to overpower. easy to pull out from her hiding place. easy to coax out from behind that locked door.
she's easy, too easy. too wanting, too...
needy.
doesn't want to feel like a thing. like your thing.
like a body to boast of
stop reachingg
stop lookig
stop seing
stop feeling
aroused
stop it stop it stop it stop it stop
no more
she's a body
her body
her *******, her thighs, her face and freckles
her hair
her voice
god, her voice
delicate
feminine
sweet, pleasant
sing ourself hoarse and only then are we content
lower in pitch
scratches the throat
an ugly noise something masculine from a feminine source
abominate
you're all straight
you wouldn't love the same if i were to change
(well within your right)
im not worth the time unless as her
her body
her words
her tone
all her
i almost want to be a man, i want to see
how many will leave
i read about love for a soul no matter what form
its a lie its a lie its a lie no one is like that
at least not for me
only just when it's for her
as long as she's stagnant
so you can touch and hold and grab and use and cherish
her body her everything its all her its always her it will never quite be
me
i dont want to **** her, or maybe im scared to really hurt the one thing that every lover has ever loved of me
it's not bad that they don't want a man, or a thing, or an it
no surgery scars or anything else
they can like what they like
i just take it personally
its her soft heart, and skin, and soul
everything will be her always always always always
daughter girl woman lady princess female always her
touch and grab and hold
maybe this time it'll feel different
and that i wont feel like all i am is her
all that's worth it is her
groom and touch up her body because, because they don't like how it is
can't stand to cut all the hair can't stand to see myself especially down where it all is
i hate it i hate her
she's everything
we're in pieces
i know you're different, at least a little
this time will be -
you met me with my words first
my creations
my mind
my humor
"what's your favorite constellation? i like orion"
you knew all of that before you knew her face
you knew me, you know me at least a little
heard me speak with her voice, always just a bit wrong but never too wrong, right? never actually bad enough to change
heard us for the first time and told us
she read it and she was!
i read it and i was so... happy. for her. by her
with her.
she's extra and excited and needy now
i allow just a bit more than before i knew you were in l..e, too
maybe i overreact, she. us. we.
it overreacts a lot. (s)he does. overthink
this is the only way i could get it out fully
out of my head and her head
such ugliness, such rawness and softness and fear
(i hate it so much)
it's ugly. it's true, at least a little
the song i make will be prettier
you'll hear it soon
i l..e you
im scared

We wear face masks
while she is working
and I see myself
transform, changing colour

into a super being
blue as a goddess
the decay of my body
well camouflaged
seemingly charmed away

What do I show
in this skin?
Myself, almost
touchable?
To strange eyes
I could not be more intimate

I look in the mirror:
my ribs shape my frame,
like lines that never go away.
They cage my heart,
turn it small.

A week sick.
*****.
Smell of decaying flesh.
No food for a week.
Only the necessary water to live.
I couldn’t breathe.

Now it has sculpted my frame,
made it fragile and small.
I put a shirt on;
hide it, push it away.

5 years of closing, like a shop in permanent clearance. Slashing prices on pieces of yourself, giving away the best parts for a fraction of their worth.

Frustrated and resentful for not being accepted at full price.

You’re too much, too cold, too sensitive, too uncaring, too… ‘not ‘the type’’.
Not into small talk.
Nothing in common.
But at least you don’t disgust them… right?

5 years of closing - the shutters grinding down heavier every day.

Once full. Open. Lit from the inside.
Now the shelves are bare,
the signage faded,
the windows covered in the dust you’re desperately trying to wipe away.

Feelings? Dismissed.
Truth? Twisted.
Vulnerability? Weaponised.

5 years of closing - not all at once, but inch by inch.
One lightbulb burning out, then another.
One shelf cleared, then another.

You used to know what you stocked.
There was clarity in who you were.
There’s inventory somewhere, maybe -
but no list, no labels.
Just shelves full of things you can’t name,
and no one left to tell you what’s worth buying.

Intentions? Questioned.
Needs? Inconvenient.
Silence? Safer.

5 years of closing - they say you meant to do it.
Meant to shut those shutters hard.
Meant to leave the shelves empty.
Meant to make them feel unwelcome.

As if the boarded windows were part of the plan.
As if the silence behind the counter was customer service.
As if becoming another abandoned shop front was a choice -
not the result of too many days with nothing left in stock.

Unseen in plain sight.
Unheard in full volume.
Unheld, even when breaking.

But hey - at least you don’t disgust them… not quite…
right?

I take a deep breath, and look into the mirror.

A reflected image of myself, appears in front of me.

They stare back at me as I stare at them.

Is this who I really am?

Is this who I want to be?

My thoughts are interrupted, by the reflection moving closer.

They stare at me, in awe of what it's seeing.

Am I really this reflection?

Am I who it wants to be?

Before I find any answers, my reflection disappears.

I look into the mirror, only to see nothing.

Why must this happen to me?

Will I ever find an answer?

This inner conflict will never end.

Will I ever know who I really am?

Will I ever know who I'm meant to be?

I'm left with doubts, and unanswered questions.

I will never find an answer.

I will never really know.

Has your soul ever been displayed,
Framed by thick wooden-glazed borders,
and set up in the gallery of another's life?

Can you say the painting of you
Beams with joy through heavy clouds,
Sliced by sharp shards of glass-like light?

If not, may you then brush-up yourself,
Quick blots of pink on sunken cheeks,
Lighten the shade under each eye?

Or will you draw the curtain,
Blind me to me, and you to you,
Pinch out the last flicker of fight?

I want to see who I really am, not who I thought I was because of my conditioning and history.