I am nothing but meat.

Defective in body, in gender, in desire.

Misunderstood like the movie monster.

Fallen apart, sewn back together,

Hardly human in the eyes of others.

Touch is endured, never welcomed.

Cold gloved hands search for flaws.

Caresses only follow pain,

Paired with whispered apologies.

I dream of better things, better days.

The loving attention I know I deserve.

Where I’m not an expensive burden,

But a priceless treasure.

Can romance bloom if friendship never roots?

Is a rare flower unworthy of the work, the care?

When I start to wilt, you refuse me water,

Indifferent to all the beauty I bring.

I want to be the abstract art on your wall.

Colors and shapes, free of sex or sexuality.

The masterpiece you proudly display,

Even if no one sees me like you do.

But autonomy is mistaken for excuses.

Boundaries are read as self-loathing.

Terms and conditions skimmed over,

And treated like a negotiation.

I want them to look without touching.

They only want to touch without looking.

There is no admiration or awe,

Only pity while they search for compensation.

“If you want someone to love you, 

Through sickness and in health,

you have to make it worth their while.”

And then I remember what I’ve always known.

I am nothing but meat.