Cars and gasoline and traffic,
Weddings, birthdays, and funerals,
The days, the months, the years.
Failures, mistakes,
Accomplishments, burden.
Life wears thin
as time gains substance.

Lifespans measured through the good and the bad days,
All a distant memory in the end.

I find myself staring
right into the abyss
day after day,
yet sunlight still burns my eyes.

I find myself tracing my timeline
of all my littlest achievements.
That is the aftermath of all my failures.

The Siren's song swimming into my ears,
sweetly against the harsh instrumental.
The angelic vocals flood all who hear;
a love of a melody so gentle.

Hair long and dark as the lyrics she sings,
eyes a bold green and skin a soft, pale tone.
A Goddess of elegance beauty brings,
whose talent does her no justice alone.

But nurture does as it will always do:
A son born from such grandeur; a Lion.
The immaculate voice is all but through;
A respite of lull sulks from the scion.

The achievements of song left in her wake;
I'll wait evermore, as long as it takes.

The rising sun's light reaching for my eyes,
almost blaring against the dawn.
The days just begun and I am already frightened.
The cool winds of morning
The smell of scrambled eggs
The sizzling of bacon.
Fatigue.
Another day.
Just remember to breathe.

The sun beating down on my face,
The gentle, warm breeze.
The smell of green plant life,
the stench of fresh mulch.
The cooling drizzle of summer rain,
the essence of wet concrete.

This is what I missed.

My my, what a special little snowflake.

Why did you choose to be this way?

You chose to be different, you chose to rebel.
No binary for me!

You chose the grief, the pain.
You chose this abuse, bruised by
the verbal ferociousness, forged by physical fallacies
To be thrown out of bathrooms
because doing your business in the bathroom is abysmal.
You chose to be derided by decisive discrimination.
You chose to be murdered by misconceptions,
***** by ridiculous requirements.
You chose to be beaten, assaulted.
You chose the words I weave to weaken your will.
You chose the sacred sermons I spit at you.

You chose to be
What I find disgusting, despicable
because you chose to be what you aren't,
but I realize what I really regard you to be.

My my, what a special little bigot.

You think I chose to be this way?

You think
I chose the injuring, injustice,
the jester, the joke
the target, tortured,
This pain, my poison,
the prey, praying,
the sinner of sins so bittersweet,
So I could be "special"?

Special isn't a sacrifice of physical self
Nor the gunshots and gruesome grief
Nor even the crass comfort of a half-assed comrade.
You think I CHOSE this,
and you didn't choose
to spit and spew your sour speeches
to disperse your disgust in discrimination
to integrate your ignorance into my existence.
Or did you not choose
to deal the abuse
by your hand
yourself?

My special little bigot,
You live as you are.

So be it, if I am so "special", the special little snowflake.
Yes, we are the little snowflakes that your palm's presence melts away,
And you're that burning persistence of life
Blocking with your own self our slow, wistful descent,
As if it were futility and not of your own will.

If I am the snowflake, you are the fire.