As you turn unhanded into something flat, you decrease, and cease to become the influence you once were on my sense of sexuality and expression.

Just a man, inadequate. Just a memory of love unreturned. My body doesn’t flux at your image. My hands are mine again.

Systemic Sorrow

And in this present moment, on the other side of town.

Another mind aches as yours does.

A kindred Sorrow over brick walls and rooftops.

A Sorrow builds and grows in fluxing rivets, unpleasant surging swell,

renewal taking strength from hordes of sources,

running together, coming together,

into a living organ that reaches into living things.

It doesn’t remain shadowy.

It was never abstract.

And the lucky are touched by it’s delicate hand,

And the rest are stomped into the tread of it’s boot.

Sanctuary I – Self

It was hard not to take on the opinions of others and let them weave into my psyche,

I did succumb, not willingly but they crept in and my flesh grew around them and they were enmeshed inside for a while.

It took my own gumption to replace them with gold thread and unlearn ideas and beliefs about my worth and about my reasons for suffering, and my body works tirelessly each day to protect and grow the cells I’m made of.


My worthlessness is (un)profoundly universal, it’s not personal – to do with the body I’m stuck in or the person I am. If it were based on that (which it isn’t) I wouldn’t be worthless at all.

Other worthless entities need me and like my worthless company.

My worthlessness is debatable and relative and actually totally separate from the opinions of other worthless creatures.