On the same subject as 'Own,' but a bit more well written.


Oh, Reader

I touch this face and wonder:
What exactly was it that I did
to anger the gods that crafted me?
Crafted: pain and torture beneath
these features even I am willing
to say are
beautiful.
I am the ultimate juxtaposition.
My decade of grace was stolen
on the kitchen floor, screaming
to make the pain stop.
The screaming has stopped,
and so has the Tchaikovsky,
as every part of me
splinters and breaks,
not even pausing for sleep.
It isn't the inevitability that enrages me,
but the inability to live like you
and the constant question
of what else will go wrong,
when all I want is the body I was denied,
if even for a day, to simply know
how it feels to be you.



Poetry by MissAudreyKaye
Read 784 times
Written on 2008-12-02 at 15:37

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