CYOA: Holy Stupidity or Ethereal Languor

I was about to make a case for the space in my head
like a tenant pointing at water stains
on the ceiling—proof of damage,
syncopated occupation—
then I remembered that no one here’s a lawyer and my life’s not a court of law.

No gavel slamming,
No o-shaped mouths ready to turn
my shame into evidence
under the buzz of the thin electric hymn of fluorescent light.
My life is not a goddamn morality play.

Nuance is nothing to black triad hopefuls who view empathy as a character flaw
with their sharp shoulders and hungry eyes,
their hands curled like claws around certainty,
a kind of gray silence.

If there was justice in this world, imposter syndrome would be bred into them.
They would inherit the questions in my throat,
the phantom limb of belonging I cannot
saw off, no matter how many times
I close the knife.

My body has never stood trial,
smelling of sweat and salt, thighs open,
as if mercy could enter me that way.

Loose flesh is their favorite.
Their hunger for cruelty:
to hear skin rip
to see a woman’s body crack open to deliver guilt
stripped to bone
like the hard-on of a boy
who never learned how to stroke a person’s face,
Only knowing the wet slap of want in the dark.

If there were justice,
the ache of doubt would live inside them
the secret inheritance they could never
fuck their way out of.