I gnash my teeth,
ripping at the bars
of this cage of flesh and bone
the two of you built for me

To rend this flesh,
rid myself of this skin,
this essence
of “like him” and “different,”
to cloak myself in a wool
white and clean
as a puff of cotton
instead of this blood-stained farce
I try to blend in with
—the wolf in sheep’s clothing

I long for it—
yearn to taste of normalcy
peace
acceptance—
to graze with the herd
and feast on earthy sward,
knowing for once a full belly
rather than the starvation
of denial.

It would be akin to the Divine. 

But I am choking
on bloodgrass and tumbleweeds,
gagging on viscera and vermin and unspoken pleas,
begging you to believe me
when I scream until my 
throat is sandpaper—

“I am like you.
I am one of you.
I love you.” 

In this barren field, 
under these frigid stars,
I lie curled under this ruined coat
of a single color
and it dawns on me that I 
am not the prodigal daughter
and there will be no homecoming celebration
with praises or laurels
because I am different,
like him,
and though I cannot change my fleece, 
I recognize that my exile will be long
and I will be lonely.
I will watch you frolic with one another,
forever desiderating
that my splintered spirit would succumb 
of its own volition.
But it won’t. 
Can’t?
Won’t. 

And while none of you
will ever believe me,
I will weep and wail, 
over and over,
as the sun rises and sets
on my numbered days,

“I am like you. 

I am one of you. 

I love you.”