sometimes,

I kind of miss who I was

but then I remember my friends,

who make every day of a new me a little less scary

and a little bit more

bearable

maybe one day

I am

created

to fit your idealisation of what is best to become of me

constricting wires strung around my throat and my limbs and my heart

you rip into my clean flesh with mechanical precision

when searing into my skin an image of everything I will never be is your only pleasure

is when I am

created

when my terrored screams of sorrow turn to subtle howling for mercy as I bleed out

magenta and cyan and yellow

is when I realise

I am another failed version of your need for perfection

and you look upon me eyes wide disgust and fear and disappointment

at your stained hands

at my disgraced hide

at what you have

When I try and think about the mistakes I have made and the words I regret muttering and the things I am shameful about initiating all it ever gets back to is me overestimating my capability of change,

Thursday night on my couch with tears in my eyes and a kink in my neck I look up at my off-white ceiling,

there's some spots I cannot quite place, maybe mold or specks I missed when painting,

and all I say is that nothing I do is right, or good, or morally sound,

Maybe it is my insatiable need to be remembered, or my constant hunger for human interaction-

god I hate my deep-rooted deprivation for recognition, my sacrilegious desire for attention

Or maybe it is not about me at all and it is just my sense of self, again ruining the potential of any sort of connection,

When every corner I turn I do not know if the person I see is who I once was or who I am meant to be,

And all I can look at is my shoes with the same dirt sticking to it like bubblegum that I crawled out of my grave with,

I am tired of the endless running from my shadow, of running from the judgement of my own self worth, and giving up halfway through to do it over and over and over and over and over-

god I hate myself for my lingering thoughts, for feeling this aching pain in my chest, for grieving a loss I am not meant to feel

Who am I meant to be if I cannot meet my own eye in the reflection of my bathroom mirror,

If I am not me

god I hate my being, I despise what I long to become, and everything I will never be

I ask 'does god still love me'

she nods

I ask, 'does god still love me even when I don't answer?'

she nods

I say, 'god is a woman,'

she doesn't respond,

I say 'god is a woman, because there's no greater hate than that for your mother,'

she doesn't respond

I say, 'god is a woman'

she doesn't answer

I say, 'god is a woman, because there is no greater hate than a mother's for her child,'

she doesn't look at me anymore

I say, 'god,'

she doesn't answer

I beg, 'god, please be my mother again,'

she never answers

I threw a birthday party for myself,

I think it went well,

I invited the mites lining my casket,

I invited the maggots ghosting my rotting skin,

I invited the moths hiding in my jacket,

They prayed for me,

My mother called when I couldn't pick up,

She cried that night

I threw a birthday party for myself,

It was still forty years away,

I baked a cake made of my bones and

decaying flesh,

They prayed for me that night,

My mother called when I couldn't pick up,

She cried that night

I threw a birthday party for myself,

I couldn't attend the day itself,

The air I filled my lungs with overflowed,

The blood my heart beats with rushed

through my veins,

They prayed for me,

for me today,

for me tomorrow,

for all of me,

My mother picked me up,

What comes after god

is it stretches of silence

endless planes of plain

a barren road with nothing in sight

is it god's god standing on the edge of nowhere

manoeuvring her like a puppet

holding her like a doll

or is it me

standing behind god's god

eyes bright

hands empty

staring up at my creation

I wonder

what comes after me