Ism-ing

The
Water
Hit my
Teeth
Like
tin Foil.

I am
Organs
-isming.

Hands
Over
Fists

Full of
Static.

“I just
Don’t
Feel
Good,”

Used
To Be a
Reason

Only
Good
Enough

For
Anyone

But me.

My senses
Pour- and
Be-trayed
Our insides.

Interoception
Disconnected

The dots
Between
My lines.

My skins
Turn red
In alarm
—-of—-
Feelings

I cannot
Compute,

Only
Shake
Free.

I have
Been…
Spite—
——Full.

Visceral
Anarchy.

A fire
In me

Refuses—
Dormancy.

“It does
Not have
To be——
This way,”

I scream

Into
Future
Silence.

Words
Said for

Other
People’s
Children.

I write

better
poetry
with my
thumbs.

He says
They are
what make
me human.

A mode to

Recognize,
Retrieve, &
Explicitize.

He grimaces
as I use my
Opposable
appendages

to tell him
what he
does not
want to
sense from
——Any—-
extension
Of my body.

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