Poem XXXV: The battle

The battle

The battle in front of the mirror
throbbing distortion
glitchy reflection
Eyes squinted
focusing on a wish
Far, unreachable, non-existent

I was eight or nine years old
when she called me that
the word crawls heavily
in the guts of trauma
my life has been subordinated
to the cruelty of strangers

When lack becomes a matter
You try to get revenge on it
etching hatred in the psyche
until it becomes the truth
Your truth

You dream with love like cortisone
to take the pain away
comfort is measured in pinches of salt
and rewards are stacked between
hours of sweat and impossible standards

We tend to forget the beauty in things
“you are not your thoughts”, they say
And the cycle of pain repeats
Like in an infinite loop
And in the middle of the noise
the battle begins again