the days drag by.

time tastes thicker than sand

buried in a cave-in,

running thin on oxygen.

bogged by fog and stormclouds,

raindrops drip down.

they drown what little soundness

remains of my brain

after every pill swallowed

my mind hollows.

colors drain until all that's left is

a husk of my former self

and the ache never mellows

it bellows its pain

they call me odd.

the odd one out,

the one who stands out,

when one should fit in.

i've yet to find a place i fit.

fit myself into a box?

are you a girl? i'm not.

then you're a boy? no.

neither one nor the other,

neither,

none,

one,

alone.

but i'm not, alone.

my heart stays far, but near to me.

too far to see, but near to me.

i wish they were more near to me.

dear to me yet far away,

close to heart yet miles apart.

why not call it what i dare call not?

love.

my love is strange.

it cannot fit within my ribs.

i feel it bursting out, calling out

for love, true love, my love,

my love is odd.

not a girl, nor a boy,

and we're the same,

them and i,

does that make us gay?

or straight, or neither?

strange, queer,

our love is unclear

our love is odd.

they call me odd.

it's by design.

i made it so,

i chose to go as odd.

i crafted my name,

crafted it from oddity,

crafted from who i am,

crafted, and meant to be.

not to fit within a box,

(you like to decide which,)

but to live and breathe outside the box,

as odd, and how odd fits.

they call me odd.

the odd one out,

the one who stands out,

when one should fit in.

they call me odd.

the girl, sorry, boy, sorry, neither?

the somewhere in between

and yet nothing like either

i am happy to be 'odd'.

i am happy to be 'strange'.

i am happy to say 'i am queer'.

as for where i fit?

right here.

odd, and meant to be.

I write this not to boast

but to state that which is true

about my accomplishments,

abilities, and attitude.

I’ve got what is called a ‘growth mindset’,

always working towards improvement,

never satisfied with a job well done

if it wasn’t completed to perfection.

I work like a flame consumes fuel

blazing and burning without rest,

making my way through until

all there is left is ash and I burn out.

My body is a machine

that doesn’t understand maintenance.

It is restless when it rests 

i miss the touch of warm skin to mine,

the caress of breath against the side of my ear.

warmth in my chest, once empty, now filled to the brim

with the close calming cadence of your heart near mine.

i knew your laugh before your face was pictured in my mind’s eye. 

now i get to learn the way your eyes light up in life.

any awkwardness that would be is left instead behind 

closed doors, beyond the space of black reflection.

these things that brought us to a new world

sit comfortably in our hands, the way i wish our hands would

it started with goodwill.

shoes that could fit an extra toe

oversized clothes, room to grow,

an inch of discomfort, 

for some change in the wallet.

i learnt to expect having to let go 

of these things i knew i’d outgrow.

wish i could cling to that stuffed unicorn

you said i don’t need anymore.

if i let go, how will my unicorn know

that i love her even now. 

if it were me, i’d hold a grudge

and i know that so would she.

can’t help but think i’ll grow out 

of everything i think is good for me.

can’t help but feel like maybe 

the good, it isn’t real.

kept her beside me as long as i could

threadbare, frayed, and laid to rest. 

where she sits unloved in a box

on a shelf out of reach. 

maybe you do know better, but i 

wish i had more time.

nothing is permanent.

i feel the ache and stretch of muscle, sinew,

bones, against the bindings of my life.

like those that held my ancestors feet

from getting more than three inches big.

all for the pretense of beauty,

and with no consideration for

the suffering or deformaties

we must carry til the end of our lives.

it starts from birth, cloth wrapped tight,

meant to stifle and silence.

whispered words of reassurance,

'this is for the best.'

and it's easy not to feel

any of the pain

until it stops and is worse

once it starts up again.

did they understand that 'the best' was not

as it was said to to be? did they feel as if

they had been trapped by their history?

did they realise the torture they endured?

or did they too open their eyes

one day, to feel an unscratchable itch

clawing from inside their ribs

in a desperate attempt to break free.

i feel the ache and stretch of muscle, sinew,

bones, against the bindings of my life

like those that held my ancestors back

I can no longer go to that condo by the water.

my friend who lived there is gone.

and where they once were is an empty house,

and a couch we laid on together.

the walls no longer echo with the sound of their laugh.

the sink has lost the blue-purple stains of dye,

from when we laughed ourselves breathless.

it’s all been washed away with a layer of bleach.

a dozen paintings lay in boxes to be shipped.

henna left to dry and crack. 

but the clock still ticks on, candles still burn,

Where does the dream end, and reality begin?

Where will the love end, and the hate begin?

Where does the pain end, (the road end?)

(the work end?) and the play begin?

When does the life end, and the end begin?