poetry:identity/self
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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…
