Pinkish

There is nothing
Remotely masculine
About this way
I bleed

After years
Of nearly risking
Myself
For the cost of sex

In ways
Such soul convicts
My mind for
Sacred pleasures

From lives which
Hurt me greatly
When pursuing
Fates not earned

Those girls
I longed to need
Without real means
Or substance

Genuine
But hardly capable
As the men
Who hold them now

While I strive
To soon forget
What pain
Deters my feelings

Each day
This future crumbles
Between fists
Of wrenching guilt

Tightened
With that grip
Assuring how
I’m unworthy

And convincing enough
Through memory
To assume
Such fate is sealed

As the days
Come flooding back
Where you left me
On that doorstep

Or weddings
Spent in bathrooms
Crying
At tables alone

Writing
Frantic verse
To keep up
With my rages

From knowledge
Of such destiny
To bear this burden
Whole

Aware
I’m just some boy
Stuck inside
These stories

My games
My colored pages
With heroes
Who give me hope

Running
Always scared
Fearful
Death is waiting

At the end
Of every sentence
I finish
Before his chance

Far from
Being ready
To tie this heart
Unwilling

Eternally
As expected
For a girl
Who brings me joy

As I’ve yet
To go and find
One person
Of such rearing

Tolerant
Of my frailties
And inspiring
True belief

But today
I think I see
My blue
Is turning pinkish

My walls
A different color
Than the ones
Which broke me down

For perhaps
I’m more in tune
As a sister
Of these muses

Soft
Immensely passionate
Nurturing
Burning needs

To create
And birth these words
Through expressions
Unrelenting

As the gender
Of my betters
More beautiful
And divine.

– J. Pigno

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