WARNING: This poem contains references to parental transphobia and suicidal ideation which some viewers may find disturbing. Reader discretion is advised.
"Son, we worry that you may have been... influenced by your friends," he says,
As if I am some lump of raw clay
Imprinted with the hand shape of the last person to touch me
As if they are some hostile presence in my mind
Some virus which seeks to use my cells to replicate itself
As if I am not and cannot be my own person
The wills of others so much stronger than my own that they replace me when the two intersect
God, do I wish they were wrong
That I was made of brick and not of straw and twigs
That I didn't want you to tell me who to be
What to do
How to live
How I wish I didn't search for a God amongst mortals
And make shrines in their name but I do
I do and I don't know how to stop how to see you as human as the human you are
I don't understand what it is that I even want
As one day I am set in my future for as far forward as I can see and the next
day I wake up blind and unable to care enough to care and I remember
the day before when I cared and I don't understand why,
why did I care? Why don't I now? How can I ever trust myself to continue to care
when nobody is around to mold me into success?
And I see my decisions through black-tinted glasses,
list off my worst attributes with spite and malice,
and resolve to accomplish nothing
and use that nothing as momentum
in a careening drop into emptiness
So please, dear God,imprint on me
So I don't ruin this life I was given in haste
And wake up one day when it's too late
And have no choice but to resign to my death
YOU ARE READING
Something Unbearably Pretentious
PoetryA collection of poetry in no particular order and on no particular subject. Don't mind the cover, I didn't want to spend time making one so I'm using a scan of a drawing page full of this guy I made who kinda looks like how the internet draws Spamto...
