Beast

 

Cure-culture kills no beast.
In fact, it feeds the one in me.

Don’t tell me to smile, if I don’t fucking want to.

And...

Sometimes my joy comes from a rage I’ve been too afraid to explain to you.

Too afraid to explain because I was taught to name and blame everything in me that made cordial cunts uncomfortable.

I’m done.

I want to set fire to every door closed on me.

I want to wear black in the summer rain without any umbrella or shoes: running to (or away) from home like I used to.

Why did I spend so many years hating my wild. Hating the stuttering child I was (and still am).

I do not want to be cured of myself anymore.

I was told to believe I was broken by the ones that broke me. By the ones that claimed to help me.

To mold me,
by scolding me into the shape of their boxes.

I’m coming back to their doors...knocking....

Hello, remember me?
Well you will.

You will remember this beast.