i wrote for a long time about being the wrong everything. the way trying to love made me feel wrong. the opposite side of love i seemed to know too well how to occupy. and now i cast the net. i'm the one to malign and violate. unjust, improper, out of order, not suitable.

i try to write my dissertation about societal outcasts. about a form of marginalization at the hands of violence that renders fictional characters commenting on real world scenarios into a violent invisible.

and yet i go on. pounding metaphorical fists into the chest of physical love. rendering retributions of my own not measuring up into a reality that tattoos other people with the words of abuse. knowing full well that i'm the liar wearing the wrong side of the fabric. i'm the one who doesn't have what it takes to make someone else feel like what they are isn't the wrong skin, the wrong name, the wrong everything in a hateful stupid unforgiving world.