Is sepulchral evolved anatomy
buried in the depths of me?
Is empty fashioned cavity
and damned from all Divinity?
Zelda gave advice to me
await your wonders quietly
a passive win of power play
be the change you want today
My sex is real, as it can feel
what those who question it appeal
My primary subject to sneers,
but I'm willing to pioneer
the legitimate
the New yonic
not with simple shears
A generation lost a century ago
rings right whose rung as minority
sits on the ladder low.
My flesh still mine, skin hypersensitive
stigma against what is reconstructive
why on Earth would I go on to live
in "mutilation" left only necrosive?
This vessel is all we have, while also less than halves
Hearts are dust, and yet we must
use judgement just to salve.
About the Creator
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Reaching Out
I promise her. I'd do anything for her. She's my mom. Even as Lanie and Deanna are flying home, Mom is scrappy fighting dying. She lays too still in that too-big bed with all the toasty white hospital blankets, in the south tower, at the broad end of a long slow-turning corner that delivers me again to her private room with the view she can't see through, with the beeping that tells us nothing new, and all these ice chips she can't swallow, and a flood of well-intentioned nurses who cannot do a damned thing all the same.
By Christy Munson4 days ago in Fiction
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