What I Think When I Think Of Dysphoria

At times, I feel that you try to pull my being
out of my body,
to dissociate and dismember the two,

and leave my body stranded as if

my hawk flew out of my mouth,
my cheeks are a metaphor for shame,
my hands exist in morbid isolation,
my eyes are a short-sighted disaster,

the shape of my eyebrows don’t make any sense.

But for whom?

But I’m aware that what you’re trying to do
is pull my body out of my being

and leave me shapeless.

All that fury without a tongue
and no mouth to recite my poetry
or hands to pen down my claustrophobia

because you have cut them off and placed them
in morbid isolation.

You attempt to render me sightless
so I would not be able to see your
capitalist dream of extortion to allow
my being to unite with my body;

you believe you have contained a revolution
by tearing down at my tangibility
and call it a political masterstroke.

But rage turns
beings without bodies into zombies

and they don’t need fingers to wield guns
to fire bullets to kill you whip masters
because what you consider an obscenity
is enough to devour you.

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