despite my circus tricks,
contortions, rituals,
my omens and magic spells,
the reinventions (husband,
shaman, harlot, ghoul)
you would rather think of
me as spotless, clean,
patient; an altogether
better creature, a passive
life form, pristine,
devoid of priorities,
devoid of blood, guts,
bowels, bones. a eunuch,
bent over, in prayer in
one way or the other,
yet if i were flawless,
i'd also be bound; i
wouldn't shout, shriek,
fear that you'd made me
a pedestal, a dinosaur,
so break the shackles
with the butcher's saw,
and let my pulp heart go,
for it beats far better
unfettered, alone -
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