Dysphoria
i can never be myself
skin stretching around fat around tissue around blood around bones
pushing through, spreading out, im aching
but never breaking through
i never wanted any attention
never wanted to be visible at all
i can never be myself
sturdy muscle collapsing in on itself
what good is a functioning body that isn’t mine
i’m sorry that i’m not grateful, i know
but imagine wearing a suit of skin that isn’t yours
feeling the slime, the guts, the flesh
suffocating, pulsing
looking into the faces of those you love
screaming and screaming but never being recognized, they can’t see
i can’t see my face in the mirror
i can never be myself because myself does not exist
humming pulse gripping small wrists
skin weeping in crimson tears and mauve permanence
hands lunge through a prison of flesh and bone
scratching and scratching and scratching
ripping through foreign guts
collecting foggy identity through each incision
desperate to carve any semblance of comfort
of visibility
of recognition
a bloody noose tightens around my throat
as the world fades, i look into the mirror, estranged eyes meet my gaze
i never belonged here anyway
fingers locked in mine, back to heavy chest
visibility in an intimacy that transcends imagery
coordination of flesh to expression, ability to hold
weight properly contained, self-enclosed sanity
the capacity to absorb affection and return it in my own integrity
unity in identity; consciousness to body, feet planted below
the relief of shared sustenance and linked touch
possibility in visions held in warm palms
raw energy between us, liberated beyond illusions
veracity in being, unsaid yet accepted without exception
what is the point of desire through foreign skin?
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