An unfinished poem to dysphoria.

And if I could stop giving you power I would.
If I could banish you from existence, I would.
You steal the comfort from my body,
and the times I've finally felt relief,
a breath of air I can actually hold in my lungs,
you tell me it's poison.
I'm swallowing poison
and my arms flail as I beg for help,
but it's too late, far too late.
The discomfort eats me alive.
Can someone, or something, hold me close?
I want the intimacy of skin I deem sacred.

_____________________________

08/09/2023

Wrote this in the moment, don't know if I'll ever properly edit or finish it.