Every Thought a Future Arrowhead

There's a corner in a white box room that's seen a lot of me,
Especially the parts that I don't want you all to see.
There's a cupboard that I live inside as if it were analogy,
A place to hide, a place to lick my wounds and wait until I'm free.

But that's a narrative that I don't think you get to walk,
The human garbage locked in limbo, waiting to emerge.
Like Sisyphus who rolled a rock until he stopped to talk
With some unearthly hero who wouldn't help him stop.
"How are you, who are you, thanks for coming down to Hell"
as if he owed a demigod bastard anything.

I'm supposed to hide away if there's a fire,
I'm supposed to close my eyes if there's a cry.
It's too much to risk, too much to risk,
The life of a trans woman isn't worth piss.
They killed our kin with poison pricks
- and if that isn't a sign of the times!
They're still doing it for kicks.

I don't think that I can be helped in the head,
and I know I'm in trouble when I'm out of bed.
It's a fine state of features when dangerous creatures
are lurking with sharp stones,
and there's a rhythm in my bones
and a corner where I dump my woes.
Nobody knows.

Getting respect when you feel like a beast in this heat,
When the mothers of brothers who spit in the street will assault,
and revolt at the sight of your eyes, your hairy thighs,
your "mutton-dressed-as-lamb" lies - surprise!
If I don't make a move then none of you assume
that I'm in this room, this room, this societal womb that is the hidden place
that everyone expected me to go to, to throw myself away to and to conform
or to absorb and perform and eventually settle down -
to calling myself my birth name, to choosing a home town -
to marrying or not marrying; but knowing why and knowing how
to having a gender
to not being an offender, scarlet-lettered and wavering,
to being repaired and no longer impaired and no longer a rabid dog,
a grunting hog, a pillar shaker, a Quaker who abstained from bullshit training and complaining.
And what's the deal with the constant simple explanation?
And the little expectation?
Better to do away with it.
That's the pathway to respect.

There's a corner in a white room that's seen a lot of me.
It eats up that desire to remain in mediocrity.
It eats the memory of names and faces
and far away places
and I will never return to myself.
Assault, revolt, disrespect, misdirect,
Lock up your binarist families as I walk by,
a dagger in the heart of St Paul.
All the better, to assist his permanent fall.