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 “slut.”
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.”
Copyright © Angelique Goldor | Year Posted 2015
|