I do not adhere
to your notions of winter.
I am neither spring nor fall.
I am not even summer
despite the diaphanous flames
that rise from my lattice-work like a mirage.
You cannot reduce me to lunar cycles.
You cannot collect me as a novelty.
You cannot determine me
divine me, grasp me without explicit consent.
I am not strange, only curious.
do not tempt me with your wares.
I have seen and tasted much
and although I still hunger
I will not eat.
I could have loved you
in any conceivable way
it was normalcy
that failed us
the terrible need
to belong together
when we do not even belong sole.
My god the flowers are grinning,
swollen genitals obscene with pollen.
If only I was more audacious,
but I do not even have the nerve
to hear myself out.
None of these identities suit me
each one more beige than the next.
And the face in the mirror
is as vague as it is hideous.
Being her is exhausting,
all that swallowing and seething.
Who will mourn me when she has gone?
Quick write. I am very sleepy so I am sure there are some typos and grammatical errors I have overlooked.