(poet's note: trigger warning. References to emotional abuse, suicide and gender dysphoria.)
I keep my curtains open so I can see the sky I can see the slightest light on the wall and single point of light in a high flying cloud. There was a picture of a mother and a child, I don't know who they were, The girl had a cigarette in her mouth and the mother was smiling, hands raised as if to preen and love, and the disassociation overwhelmed and washed at the stage play of domestic torture, A toddler with a bomb in its mouth Because all of our parents are deathtraps and it all in our heads. I have made everything up because I will never share a consciousness with anyone.
The crush of a chest is a strange sensation, up to my eyes in overlapping lines and TV static of colours like a 90s film gone berserk. Press the button and feel the static rush free; a snarling animal rising up your neck, fingering your hair The grubby breakneck feeling of the body; the suitcase that a baby was stuffed genocidally into on the day of my birth, And all the people took her and ran, banging on the inside like Esther's avocado pears on a train to gentrified suburbia Where we sat and lay and never slept and tried to kill ourselves years too young while tall figures stuffed words down our throats my dear The parallel was so magnetic I let
them tear me limb from limb, the baby howled in a white bed held only by a woman And she never grew into her: the body crawled from her suitcase and it stood and proclaimed in a library to only one person in real, true blue And they became a f***ing fa***t who walked over breasts and thighs off the highway and got drugged up And I lie here and witness the lunar visitation on the wardrobe and trip my way through fifteen years of bashing my head in a hinge
And am content as I see myself spitting out the cigarette and raging supremely away From my own timebomb. Without god, I create my own divinity.