Another choked-up poem

I shouldn’t have been surprised.

I’ve always been an empty bottle clearly labeled “boy”,

but I drowned.

It all came rushing in.

When I was empty,

people nodded along whatever I said,

and now I know that its not

that they changed their minds.

They just find my overgrowth respectable enough

to take me seriously.

And this poison

feeds on me.

It is stronger than my glass walls.

It morphs me into what it thinks I should be.

It does not care that my voice cracks

whenever I see my elongated fingers,

or I tear up when I hear

what deep sounds escape the well of my throat.

I feel further and further each passing day.

This poison is like paying rent

to have a roommate.

It borrows every inch of me and always returns damaged goods.

It stretches its essence into whatever it is that stares back in the mirror.

And to think I once used to love my body.

Back when it fit.

This poison is pumped into me

and I don’t get how glass can expand

and not crack.

How no one else feels the reverberations.

I don’t get how I’m supposed to swallow all of this.


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