i want to write my flesh

i want to write my flesh
and stretch the words
slowly out along the curls
of vapor escaping my lungs

i want to write my flesh
and let it seize upon my sinews
until they snap and scream
and leave my muscles sore

i want to write my flesh
on leaves of slate and crystal
with chalk of bone
ground from the beast i was

i want to write my flesh
and read yours instead

ptkh 02.09.18

This Voice

This voice says: Shut up.

This voice says that nobody wants to hear from another broken white man.

This voice says that there are people who suffer more than you, people who face obstacles so large that you can’t even imagine it.

This voice says there have been enough white men talking.

It’s time to stop.

It’s time to curl up and wait for the wind to blow your dust into oblivion.

But.

This voice is the voice of another white man. And the white man is the devil.

This voice doesn’t care about the suffering of others.

This voice doesn’t want to make room for them.

It only wants to stop a betrayer from talking.

It is used to the echoes of its baritone against the walls of its toxic male echo chamber.

It tries to convince me that it is the voice of enlightenment, but it is not.

This voice is the patriarchy, hissing at a man who never quite fit in.

This voice does not want its secrets revealed.

This voice contorts and slithers and hides its form beneath a sheen of logic and sincerity.

This voice screams: Shut up.

And I bow my head and let it silence me.

Until I don’t.