The tops of my arms
is nice, soft human skin
hidden by a thousand porcupine quills
emerging from within—
mismatched parts:
a genetic violation,
my humanity six feet buried
by masculinity;
the goosebumps
when I look at them, they stand
in a fear that goes both ways—I
will cut them off.
The bottoms of my arms
are scarred from wrist to elbow.
A withering painting of fury, misery, and
desire as a love of maroon—
the past in action as mind to matter,
but worse, a keepsake from her.
In time, as red bled to white,
soft human skin, now,
when I look at them, I stand
in a shock that lasts too long—they
are almost gone.