Eyes widen until the lids begin to tear.
A soft-skinned finger penetrates your lips,
thrusting straight through your flaccid teeth.

Scratch at your scalp till it exposes those worms.
Those worms that whisper tantalizing thoughts
into your loins beyond the lakes of blood.

Because darling, you’re a woman! Isn’t it beauty?
Isn’t womanhood just cosmic repugnance?
Oh, illustrious divine, won’t you steal away my dysphoria?

Beat my head with my fists until it’s nothing but gore.
Hands over my ears to prevent me from hearing
the shrieks and howls and cries and wails and screams.

And the hate, oh, the hate that drives those around me
to madness as sumptuous as Nyarlathotep itself.
Those who shout are yet to see distant enough ahead.

Not feminine, or masculine, or androgynous,
or childish, or mature, or lovely, or ugly;
simply a being in a flesh suit with crystals for eyes.

Elaine (they/them) is a young, queer poet looking to find their way in the world. They grew up in the Midwest and have been writing since they were 12; their work ranges from concrete to abstract in style.