It began in my fifteenth year, this
disgust for self.
It continued unabated for decades, this
hatred of my body.
It remains a permanent mark on my soul like a tattoo.
With each promise,
with each posturing move,
with every demand, the ink in my flesh grows darker.
The trench to my heart has been fortified,
solidified, ironclad with extra balustrades.
Turning in on itself,
turning out reflecting images of men,
transforming into disgust.
Did I cum …
Did I release…
Did I feel the burn…
I felt nothing,
nothing at all.