he waits to be free,
the kind of seventeen
that wishes for the psychology
of illumination,
without bones, without blood,
without bruised mirrors.
he prays for sin at 11:11,
steps on all the pavement cracks
and hopes
it would save him
just a bit faster.
self-abasement burns
at the outside of his flesh:
invisible eyes
with condescending stares,
flash until they fade two by two
into the eerie silence
of a hallway
[an empty chair rocks]
etch, and scar the world
with a memory witnessed on repeat.
his anima lingers in the aftermath
of labels: frosted glass
desperately wanting to shatter.
he falters,
force-feeding conformity
into his nerves -
subtly dissolving
every aspiration he wove.
with each turn of the spoon
he never grows satisfied,
eating off the floor,
swallowing loose ends
and cruel intentions.
realization strikes the village
of his veins:
threads of possibility
emerge afresh
from within.
with tolerant hands and bread eyes,
he bans hunger from the world.
trembling lips caress humanity;
this face which holds his name
does not define him.
The tone of his gender leaves no sound,
but the voice of his heart
screams for acceptance,
for his right to love;
he will rewrite
his scars.
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