On the cusp

(of Cardinal and Mutable)

It’s a must

(that facts are irrefutable)

Lessons learned

(from prototype apocalypse)

What I earn

(isn’t digital or counterfeit)

It’s so funny when things change but always stay the same; counting on a paper abacus out in the rain.

It’s so gloomy, a house of cards destroyed by hurricane; loving money won’t nullify the rage, the fear, the pain.

On the cusp

(of Righteous and Indignant)

It’s a must

(to cast off from the Ignorant)

Lessons planned

(by Genius and Insanity)

What I am

(is not muted by your Vanity)

It’s so scary when things change but always stay the same; counting on a paper abacus out in the rain.

It’s so silly, a house of cards destroyed by hurricane; loving money won’t nullify the past or feed your brain.

Hi, Mom.

Just settling in. Not much to report, so I'll tell you about my day. The grey stripped bed in the corner reminds me of the war movies grandad and I watched on Saturdays. Only, it isn't some glorious act I'm waiting to perform for patriotism. It's just grey. I unfolded the mattress and sat for a while, thinking about what just happened to me.

The guy already in here just rolled over and grumbled at me something about the toilet. I wouldn't exactly call it a toilet, though. Looks like the bathroom set-up in the yellow camper we had. But, it's grey, too. He has scribbled some things on the walls, or at least I think it was him. I'll write more about my cell mate when I get to know him.

Just got back from lunch/supper. We get one proper meal a day, and then snacks popped through the bars the rest of the day. I haven't earned time outside in the yard, yet. So I spent the day inside. Different people came by throughout the day to tell me about schedules: meals, showers, earned recreation, medical check-ups (although, Jason--that's my cell mate's name--says that part is pure BS), and work duties.

I have nothing but the clothes they gave me. Jason seems okay, but he is definitely depressed and farts worse than Uncle Ian. There is one bright spot. I found some scrap paper and a pencil nub. So, that's how I'm writing to you.

Send my love to the family, and tell them I'm fine. That last part might be what Jason calls BS.

Love you.

I want to be swept away by the golden bristles of a corn broom, floating on the currents from a languidly turning fan on a Southern summer night.

I want to be picked up by the honeysuckle breeze, riding drops of nectared pollen that plummet from a bee's overburdened legs.

I want to fall into a micro-pool on a cloverleaf petal, swimming with organisms too small to be named.

I want to evaporate off a magnolia blossom with the morning dew, fogging the glass of a hothouse that held winter tomatoes.

disenchanted,

the magic being washed down the drain in the shower,

like a clump of hair in the drain

or chunks of vomit after a long night.

it was labeled as infectious

and removed.

scrubbed away by chants and crystals,

soap and water,

my curse has been removed

and i am now empty,

a blank slate waiting for the next day

to rewrite me.

and then i'll scrub it away again.

disenfranchised,

having lost my trademark magic,

who am I now?

i have become one of the masses,

losing the dirt that made me

human.

losing the grime that made me real.

i am now a mere doll,

hardened skin,

smooth edges

and an absence

of dirt.

in being clean, i feel

dirty.

disengaged,

i have stopped caring about the shower,

stopped dwelling on each speck of dust

stopped untangling my hair with a thick brush.

i no longer have the energy

to clean

when being clean

feels wrong.

i am no longer within a shell of a body,

now my body is everywhere all at once,

at one with the dirt

and the cockroaches living

in the cracks of my walls.

disenchanted,

but i am working hard

to reenchant myself

with the glory

of grime,

cultivating it

in a grey and black garden

on my skin.

it was magic that i was taught to fear

but only now do i see

its beauty.

i'd like to think

that i could

take criticism in stride

and embrace it

like an old friend.

after all, i'm not perfect:

nobody is.

when people ask me for criticism i am

noncommital

and i give

no real answer

because i feel like

i'm being mean.

so it's no surprise that

criticism feels like cruelty.

i want to improve

but criticism feels like failure

and i'm tired of failing

at everything i do.

i need my words to be cushioned

like pillows at the bottom of a cliff

because i tell people i'm not afraid of heights

but the drop is formidable.

i'll ask for your opinion,

but i don't really want it,

and yet i need it

i crave it-

as long as it's "nice."

everyone's a critic

including myself

but my own insecurity

doesn't numb me to the

suggestions

of everyone else.

and yet

i don't want

to listen.

no, i don't take criticism well.

Persecuted for their beliefs in the United States? You mean the land where the first amendment states that we all have freedom of religion, but you can't be gay or trans because the Christain God says it's evil and not their inclusive, all-loving idk wiccan god or goddess, for example? A land where you must bear children no matter what and can't have abortions in some areas because God says it's murder? A land where you swear on the Bible in court? In court!! A place that upholds the laws, including freedom of religion, tells you to swear on a Bible! Maybe not as much anymore, but the option certainly still is there, especially in states that are not as progressive. Christianity is literally taking over the laws in some areas (in particular more conservative areas) and they feel like theyre being persecuted? Someone please give these people an island to live on where they can live and judge all they want against other like-minded asswipes.

I'm sorry, but just because those who follow a different religion or no religion are saying "hey, that's enough stop pushing your beliefs on me" does not mean christians are being persecuted. They're just a bunch of whiny babies who play victim when things don't go their way, even though their way hurts thouands and even millions. What does God have to say about that? Gosh they're so annoying, just a bunch of jokes. I'm over them. All they want is to feel powerful. That's literally it. Fuck 'em. Not literally of course...don't let them reproduce.

Also, I know not EVERY Christian is like this, but the majority of them are, especially those evangelists. If you're anything close to it literally do not talk to me, I have nothing to say to you and nothing learn/hear from you.

Also, also, sorry if it's hard to read or follow along, I didn't feel like going back to edit so good luck lol.

every night i look into the mirror,

each flaw of the day i clearly see

and i f r ea k out on my skin.

they all tell me

let it heal, let it be,

you'd be beautiful.

but that's not me

i don't feel pretty

or healing, just bleeding.

time heals every wound

still i won't let it, cannot help

but work against it.

"you told me i was shattered"

my glass shards cut you,

and i'm sorry.

once upon a time

i was a stained glass window

but you broke me.

even so,

you didn't deserve

the slices

that your damage

inflicted

on us.

fingers tight

on the shopping cart,

i keep my feet steady

to slow my heart.

the grocery store is

now a place of death.

i walk slow,

but nothing can

slow my breath.

i keep my face neutral,

so that no one hears;

my inner screams

only fall on deaf ears.

i talk and talk,

i smile and laugh,

i walk and walk.

the aisles are walls

made of brick and bone;

the tiles on the floor

bleed like cuts.

i can feel eyes

on every inch of skin.

i want to cover up so

no one can see within.

my body is on a stage

every time i go in public.

and i want to hide

in the shadow

of the spotlight.

everyone is my audience,

i'm supposed to

put on a show.

but every time i breathe

my mind screams at me

to go.

go far away

hide back in your hole

don't look at the faces

just look at the products

in the aisle

and your white knuckles

on the shopping cart.

you're in the mexican food aisle

you soothe yourself

with reading name brands

of tortillas.

your fingers unclench

color seeps back into your skin.

but every step feels

like a battle.

and you can rarely win.

suddenly even the tiny signs fade.

your anxiety is now

invisible on the outside.

but inside your thoughts still roll

a speech being read live.

everyone sees into your head

they see your thoughts

and they hate you for it.

you're so self centered,

you're no main character.

why do you see yourself

in the spotlight,

when you're barely even

worthy of a backstage role?

but i don't see myself

as a main character.

i see myself as a backup

shoved into the spotlight

when i don't have any lines

memorized.

i know i'm no main character

but everyone looks at me like

i am one.

and it's not a good feeling.

my white knuckles on

the metal shopping cart

play a song

that only i know.

the shopping cart blues.

pronoun (he/him/his/she/her/hers): ze/zim/zis

parent (mom/mother/dad/father): zether, zed (I recently found out from batmaninwuhan that a zether is a musical instrument, and I feel like that just makes the word that much cooler)

term of respect (ma'am/sir): sher/zar (at some point some kid used to call me "sher" and I decided that I liked it as a gender neutral term)

general title (Miss/Ms./Missus/Mrs./Mister/Mr.): This one I'm really not sure about. I kind of like "Master." That seems like something that can be used across all genders, and it's a word that already exists, which makes it easier to be adapted to nonbinary purposes.

I forgot to include this in the challenge, but if you want, you can do something for "guy" or "girl." Mine would be "no-bi." I sort of like the way it flows.

Let me know what you think!