Under my sleeves

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.