Muscles for Head

 

 

The muscleheads
Make me feel
Bad about my body.
The rest like
Other types of boys
On the shelf.

​

I take my spite
To a dumbbell,
And sweat drips
Like tears down
My girly face.

​

Still, guys don’t
Take a second
Look at me.
If only they could
See me
Solely for sex.

​

At least they’d see me at all.

​

When I see guys wearing eyeshadow,
It makes me feel diluted,
The watercolors I used to paint my face and blaze trails with
Evaporating into my desire to blend
Until I’m what guys want to see —
A canvas devoid of colors beyond the primary.

​

But then a sprinkle of sparkle
Hits my face just right,
And I remember how I used to not care
If my hues disturbed the monotone gradient.
My wavelength was supposed to transcend

The limitations of space.

I was supposed to take space,
And now I’m orbiting the same moon
That cast away the sunshine
I yearned to exude through my paint.
Perhaps that was merely an eclipse,
And I was meant to refract the moon’s light.

​

At last, I see myself, but I don’t think it’s how I’m seen.

​

I gravitate toward clothing that feels good because it’s simple,
And people
See someone
Who’s trying
Too hard
To be loved.

​

I refill the warmth in my heart with flashy apparel,
And it feels like
I’m wearing nothing
At all, yet
I’m being caged
By clothes
And the eyes of passersby.

​

I long to simply experience at all,
But it seems I must
Choose between trading
Muscles for head
Or makeup for self,
And I cannot choose,
So I take from myself.