Prophesy & prosthesis
If my words are an extension of me,
like my arm is,
Or if words are prosthetic,
Are they pink like my inside, or pink like my outside?
Are they pulled out of my gut bloody, or steel wool silent?
Do they have a girl toy or a boy toy?
Which toy would they like?
I am not convinced these words, bloody or clean as they may be,
Could actually say something, is the problem.
all the words ever end up saying is:
That I am Scared and Gay.
Without me, these words have scissors
they quick make a hairless silhouette of me with a tape recorder
that makes me sound even more faggy.
I’m scared if I leave them now, they will become active at night
and bite the softest skin I have left,
And I am anxious that the red bumps will out me.