Trapped in a body that doesn’t feel like home. Trapped in an apartment that doesn’t feel like shelter.
The reckoning has already taken place. They’ve cut up their clothes. Bandaged their wounds. Sit quietly, chest heavy.
A dose of hormones is packaged within reach, promising to rewire reality. Sculpt their bones, comfort the crying child with more than just a balloon.
Comic book pages cover the walls. Nothing’s ever as simple as putting on a costume.
It all unfolds into a useless pattern: feed the bird, fight for employment in the wrong skin, avoid mirrors. Drowning but slowly.
The door is locked and the radio is blaring. They swallow the pills one by one like sprinkles and wait for the clouds to come.
Sarah Marchant is a St. Louis poet who organizes her dreams in her sleep and struggles with being fully present. Keep up with her work on Twitter at @apoetrybomb.