They compare our bodies to machines
And if they are right, mine must be a broken one.
Can’t you see my gears grinding, wires sparking,
Buttons sticking, engine coughing?
Smoke pouring out of my mouth,
Oil trickling from my nose.
If my body is a machine
Then I am a rusted pickup, lying stalled out
And forgotten on the highway.
The leather on my seats coming apart like knuckles cracking,
Milkweeds struggling through the gaps in my radiator,
Turning my metal shell into a garden.
My windows are shattered, paint chipping off in slivers
Like playing cards at the casino.
The rust creeping over my skin like a disease.
Or it could be that my body is a star
And that’s why they dope me up
On these prescription drugs
That some scientist designed to dim the light
emanating from my skin.
And don’t I know it isn’t polite
To be so blinding?
Because I am only supposed to be as bright
As a butterknife in sunlight
Only how is my father supposed to recognize his son
If I am always overshadowed by it?
But I’m not supposed to ask these kind of questions, so I should keep my curious mouth closed.
Or I guess I am a prisoner
Because for some reason, they always try to put boys like me into boxes.
And if they can’t put me into a metaphorical one,
They put me in a real one.
A 2 by 4 plastic stall in a room full of sinks and woman
Who scream when they see you.
Because despite the fact that I can’t be older than fourteen,
Because despite the fact that I am only five feet two inches and ninety pounds of exhausted,
I am still considered a threat.
Why?
Sometimes I can hear the sound of a gun loading
When I have to pull my hood over my head
And affect a feminine walk
Just so I can wash my hands
Without bracing myself for the slamming of hands
Against my shoulders.
The spitting voices of people who hate the very marrow of my bones simply because my body
Does not fit the puzzle of their lives, because even in my own country
I do not exist.
So I brace for the accusations of a first world population
That seems to have congregated
With the sole purpose of ensuring my continued incarceration.
Maybe if I tried hard enough, I could be a Mexican howler monkey.
Because I’ll be damned
If I don’t feel like howling right now.
And wouldn’t it be so much better
To already be going extinct instead of struggling through every day wondering when I will.
But then again, whenever I try, I fail.
So maybe I should be
A deep sea fisherman.
Because the ocean is deep enough
To hide all of my secrets.
I’ll let the fish swallow the little boy on my shoulder
The way they swallowed Jonah
Even though I’m pretty sure he isn’t the devil.
And in exchange,
I’ll be the first fisher who never makes a profit.
But under no circumstances.
Ever.
Am I allowed to be myself.