Each syllable
each rounded, echoing diphthong
conveys nothing, except creating delicate
incisions in my ears
My back is bristling.
I have not felt in control of this body
ever
Let alone “at home in it”
“comfortable in my skin”
On this day my legs forget how to walk,
On this day my mind attempts to kill me
And on this day, again, I fail
To speak in ways that appease people
Whose thoughts and desires are a mystery to me.
I don’t remember doing anything with ease.
I cannot even trust my body to hold me upright.
Sexuality
is something that people who are not me
possess.
How can someone who resembles
a scuffling witch
who hobbles and aches
who stutters,
who falters and forgets
own something as
precious as this?
My humanity
and my body –
all accidentals
and false starts.
I lack identity
with your movement
with myself