i have spent decades policing myself and spooling my rage into a tight ball of rules. i measured my length in fingertips and my hands were always open, but i have scars in the shape of fingernails lacing my palm. because all i really wanted was hair that matched my eyes and to pretend i played with dragons, but instead i stitched myself together with a seam up my backbone. it’s starting to rip, and my stuffing is coming out the seams, made of bitten tongues and a fear that only knows loss
i lost years trying to please people who couldn’t give a fuck about my mouth unless they were feeding me soap and who supported me under the guise of a muzzle. i lived in a world where i was so afraid to say “no” that the word sounds foreign in the space between my teeth and my throat
and after years of hard-earned transformation all they want is more, more, more, taking off bits of my skin as punishment and reminding me that i should not be my own. reminders push to my phone that i spent twenty-two years sick with worry over the things that i am not, working to become the things that i am. in return i was given two shitty parties and a few pieces of paper with gold foil.
i turned myself into a motel painting using words that fell on pleased ears and upturned noses, when all i want to be is a blank canvas