You are buoyed up by your loathing.
Did it come from your father favouring your brother,
or from your mother’s indifference.
Without this hobby you would be kicking your heels,
listening to music on your headphones.
Now you have found fuel to drive your day,
a flame, an agenda.
Maybe you share your motivation
with the boy who couldn’t get girls,
the boy who couldn’t make himself like girls,
the boy who cut himself because he wanted to be a girl.
Clearly you are troubled.
You liked it better when there was more subterfuge,
an edge, a risk.
Now it is a bit too public, bordering on mainstream.
People can see your face, look you in the eye.
But you practise your stare in the mirror,
tense your muscles so your veins protrude,
fill your chest with hate. You target your extreme opposite,
families with soul, with love,
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