Self-Actualization/Self-Design

 Self-Actualization/Self-Design

To deteriorate is an art.

Each morning, my bones

ache and snap— one by one.

I grip my flesh and pry it apart,

shedding my skin like leaves

in the winter. I’m making room

for my new and improved model.

Flesh is too unforgiving.

It scars and burns and flakes

off. With new implementations—

arteries of wire, carbon fiber musculature,

stainless steel face plates—

imagine the strength I wield.

I wanna be painless.

Privileged to never sweat,

never bleed, never cry.

Construct my frame with me,

hand in cybertronic hand.

Upload my consciousness,

integrate my processors.

Make me an archetype of proficiency—

efficient, effective, and effortless.

Persona Poem

 For My Dearest Pianist:

I miss your gentle hands

and warm breath. Easygoing,

light, sunbreeze, breath. 

I miss your fingers— how

they would graze my lips

and I would sing to you.

You were so gentle, fingers

curling and curving, tapping

and holding. And sometimes

you were rough. Sharp strokes

and quick strikes— closed 

eyes and deep breaths.

I remember you would

rock and sway, submitting

to our song. And when we

were spent, you would close

me up gently— so gentle—

and leave your sheet music

upon my brow. 

In Defense of My Scabs and Scars

In Defense of My Scabs and Scars

My face is pressed to the mirror again.

I climb onto the sink, and with a close eye,

my fingers dance across my broken skin,

scrutinizing each spot of irritation.

I should be out the door, but time flies by

when my face is pressed to the mirror again.

I pinch and squeeze at the swelling pearls within

my flesh. I will make each pore bleed ‘til I’m dry,

so my fingers search along my broken skin.

I focus on a cluster on my chin,

unconsciously scouring, to purify

my face, pressed to the mirror again.

The buildup of sebum and keratin

spills out of my cheek like botflies,

as my fingers dig into my broken skin.

With each release of pressure, an imprint

of my crescent nails remain. My

face is pressed to the mirror again,

and my fingers scratch at my broken skin.