The demented melancholia,
Possession, defeat, as I take time
In my hands.
Indebted to the concept,
I cannot fathom my guilt.

Touch the image,
Balance the abstractness
With string.

Inhale,
Take in the chemicals and the poisons,
Take them in.
The cripple is mine to bear,
The prehistoric phallocentricity of this
Twisted world.

You are the prototype
Of the magazine;
The poster child
For this ugly notion.

Smoothed over with pixels,
You're perfect now,
Skeletal and ill.
Femininity unable to be expressed
By those with
Straight lines and
Flat chests.

You are your reflection,
And you will never know what it is like
For someone who doesn't match.
You're the same.

We don't match.
I don't match.
Split down the middle.
You'll never know.
Never.