I am the elephant in the room
and the room is the world, though yet constrained
by sight and limb. My tiptoes are bell-chimes
that ring chromatic yet dissonant scales.
Sometimes other people serve
as warnings, as limits, as loudness,
as catalysts of self-doubt and self-hate.
I am the ghostly markings on the wall
of an asylum, in faint red, tallying the days,
and the asylum is the world, though yet constrained
by thought and tongue. My fingers are fault lines
where subtle tremors tremble with
every little twitch. Sometimes other people serve
as pointers, as harsh truths, as stones
of conviction — cast first, them without sin.
Pariah, they call me, and I do not refuse
their disgust. Some people serve dissent,
some people serve distrust. I see myself
serving a mirror where they see
their worst selves. Where they see
their failures within this broken being,
being broken within this self,
thriving.
The world has all its worries, and I have one less:
I've no fear of being an outcast,
being already an outcast myself.
— A. P.