The Inward

The maze is Inside. Navigation here is like trying To take a dump After having too much White rice. You get further in Only to pique Frustrated In cramps, Un-amused. Perhaps… after the cramps… You find braces A gawky smile, Tightened pants, A cisgender boy Pinning your arms down. Confusion. You want it but you don’t. You don’t want the label of “****.” But you do want the experience. He christens your lips with saliva and old-tomato juice. Unpleasant. What’s more unpleasant are His rough sausage hands. Daggers for nails! He tries to go in. He fails. “Maybe another day,” you exclaim. Now he is but a ghost, In the maze. Years pass: Minutes stretch. Moments emanate nausea And lack subtlety. The second wind in the maze, you begin to question. Am I bi? Am I gay? Am I trans? Am I neither… Am I some… Am I either…or? You can’t think! Temptations rattle As beauties thrust themselves In your direction They say words That act like Sirens. Then, Like sirens, Your maze develops scars. Scars turn to cancer. Cancer turns to death. A part of your maze Is cursed. Now you sit, Inward. Questioning, Angry, Wishing you hadn’t said certain things. Because those things Have castrated your soul Into something you wish you did not know. “Gaslight.”