poetry:identity/self
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T/W : sexual abuse The flames always caressed me. Became my friend in its constant comfort, licking away my tears. Put the power of perspective into my mind. The flames put control into my hands. . The devil got me long before I was born. Forced me to believe, then robbed me of my innocence.…
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bloated with clouds and punctuated blue the space, the stage, i’ll listen for you these pockets of perception, i’m known in shattered ways there’s a reward in restraint, i think it’s a fainting art listening really, my brain is all jumbled up all i can speak of is the residue of intention on my tongue
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Of course I have my reservations; Why, I am soft spoken—swimmingly (seemingly) golden. It’s all controlled and monitored, For I am violently hurting and desperate to express it, explain why. I think my anger hovers over me like a fly I’m unaware of. Point it out and out of embarrassment, I’ll attempt to cleanse myself…
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I am scattered and I am dispersing. I have always been my five year old self; engulfed in (!), fixated on (!), and deeply treasuring (!) the new curiosities to be gained from our bedroom television. And she had always been me; a gender abomination and a scientist studying its unexpected amalgamations: the bane of…
Pajolo Cam 