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Xallan Jan 15
I have been halted
My potential has been dismissed.
Halfway through puberty, my thyroid stilled
Dependent on daily doses of artifice
Taking vitamins, supplements, medications
For all my unnatural natural disorders

Already bloated with self-hatred, I dream, yes-
I wish and hope for impossibilities
Denied me by my biological construction
Dreaming, wishing, hoping is futile.

I am forever limited.
My frame is weak and small and pathetic
I am swollen with disgrace, I work
I act and I cause with no effect
I cannot speak to my reflection in the mirror
Working, acting, causing is futile.

I will always be held back.
My body will release blood and tears instead
My flank makes my figure obvious
Hidden, buried,
I don't desire to resemble a perfect muse
I desire the average, out of reach
The mean. The median. The mode.

I deceive myself with mindless motivations
Persistence, Perseverance, and Patience
All lies, the real truth is time ends all.
All my hopes, all my joys, all my pains, and yet
I see in the tea leaves in the dredges of despair
I perceive the hopeless reality
Time will end my life.
Xallan Jan 15
I wake with a mango mind.
Brilliant, full of Hope,
without faith. I Rise, and wrestle with the sky.
My arms show no sign of falling off.
I see them,
where they always are, as always,
half dressed in their costume, Weary
at the edge of a of a crosswalk.
Their minds are discolored and contorted,
at odds with their perfect skin.
Their costume, once brilliant as I,
now without Lustre and gleam,

drags in the mud.
They whisper to themselves inside. I never listen, because I have better music.
Their skins peel away, and I shudder and hold mine close.
I pity them in their confusion. Their mind
addled without drugs, just
a mistake, in the massive mechanization of life.
I query the impulses, if they dribble into my pond.
Their cloudy eyes seek mine, their
grotesque hands reach out, their
****** threads threaten to entangle me, their
whispers crash upon my music

and they pump me full of mud.
They beg me to run and warn me to flee,
while desperately clutching at my shoes.
They shudder at my loss
and pity me in my great power.
They state the obvious, screeching
in high tones. They told me
the truth that I knew was a lie, but yet
I couldn't deny. They told me
to take a hammer to my mirror, and then
I might see part of them,
Xallan Jan 15
Their youth has not grown old, not yet
tired, only their age
because their numbers don't add up
They is too big or too small, for this
body or this mind
they cannot be sure
Assurances is not a class they can take

after absolutism was abolished with the sun
uncertainty guides them
and they let it

What they loves is the night, and they
loved their day, and they loves the breath of life
They is not one here for adventure, but seeking it
They finds joy in the sound of silent heartbeats
and in the glow of closed store window lights
and coffeeshops and money not well spent
in excuses and experiences
down aisles and between crowds
of excessively loud and side-eyed people
infused with unseen smoke and voices
that hang in the air

in pointless conversations
about self-care and self-hatred and self-acceptance
because connection does not happen
with shared cables or hugs or fingertips

it's gotta be the craniums
tuned in to the same radio color
They smile at the time lost
and the temperature fluctuations
at warmth and unread newspapers
at insulating their takeout with their poor choices
even drinking forbidden coffee at 10 at night
vintage or handmade thrills
They laugh at the idolatry of merchandise
and the idolatry of spirituality and religion
even as they bow to the ground for their god
and they pray

listening to his ears for revelation
or any enlightenment left in his neurons
Input without limitation, and enjoy now
all of it is a distraction from the restriction
from the wrong place and wrong time

from the wrong skin
concealed by binding clothing, huff, huff
They inhales the world, and all the kindness but
only to exhale carbon dioxide

and that is the breath of life
  Jan 11 Xallan
David Abraham
Sometimes I want to take her up in my arms
and feel like a man,
because I'm a lot bigger than her
and my hands dwarf hers,
but we both know I can't.

My heart rises up to my throat
when I think of her
and it swells from the love I hold so dear
and it breaks when I remember that I can't be close to her.

I'm not close enough to ****** her knotted hair,
and I'm not close enough to make sure nobody hurts her.
She can protect herself sometimes, and I know she isn't hurt as Much as I am angry when she is insulted.

Their jokes about me loving her hardly seem like jokes now,
and I might just be a bit high on pain or hunger or maybe it's just the lonely hurt,
but I want to hold her
and love her,
but I have to know that it isn't possible.
A love between us is impossible,
however much I wish I could be a man to her, for her, just to simply be
for her.
0222 october 10 2018
Xallan Jan 11
Go hard, or go home, right?
I'd rather cut off my hands at the wrists
Than make a little incision.
No temptation to take a blade to my throat,
Then, because I wouldn't have any hands,
Just bleeding stumps, see?
No hands, no grip,
No blood, no life.
Nothing but a pitiful excuse for a body
Without life. With severed hands,
And nothing to serve with
But glances of pity and sob stories
To warn your children not to be like me.
Useless excuse for a person
Who handicapped themselves!
It's so ridiculously ******, it's downright comical.
The men who freed themselves will
Laugh their little heads off at this.
They might take a look
At the space that their hands compose so
And perhaps wonder empathetically
What might drive me to discard so many
Perfectly designed atoms designed subpar.
Maybe a brighter one will realize
The truth- it's psychological
No hands, no touch
No touch, no feel.
Xallan Dec 2018
Poetry is a food, a fueler, a filler
Of that emptiness we hope to resolve
Words are a chemistry, a balance, an equation
For nutrition of our nonexisting soul
Words- we take, we bake, we fill
Ourselves too full, we are gluttons
Sticky letters dissolve to
Nonsense,  and hang off our tongue,
Always dripping, never falling
I began this movement, this culinary labratory
Where we mix chemicals together to
Create two-dimensional poisons of ecstacy
Lost in our minds, on our lips, savoring
Every drop-
Xallan Dec 2018
He just wrote it.
He buried himself in words.
He didn't need paper to succeed, he just flew
in an airplane suspended by thoughts-
not his, but big strong thoughts-
he flew,
upon letters of recommendation
and capital sentences:
to jump his bail, fly the coop, escape from jail.
He folded his passion in life ori-gami,
gave it some ****** with his mind,
and off it went,
finding some draft in the stale and lifeless air.
He lept off the cliff, and what luck-
He flew.
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