Ag

@agfrombaltimore.bsky.social

11 Followers 17 Following

Poet. agfrombaltimore@gmail.com

you want to believe you’re a horrible devil, a demon that came to possess yourself, but you know better. Haunted by a tomboy. The ghost of a tomboy. She fought and fought and fought and the girl kept her down. The girl will never keep you down. You’re safe in your testosterone armor and your dorky little helmet. So maybe you’re awful huh? Maybe there’s nothing to you. Maybe these thoughts are getting more and more absurd. The years tick by and the poetry chapbooks become psychiatric evidence. The years scorch by and the words become more jumbled, lose their cute little claritites. The years scream by and the girl you used– I have been using the poetic you for too long. As if it’s a shield. As if it’s somehow less cringeworthy to ask the reader to step into my mind than it is to invite her into it. THE YEARS, it is said, SCREAM BY, and the girl used to be becomes the man I am, does not become the woman I wanted to be. I can still picture her sometimes, bent double in yoga pants, rose water splashed on her forearms, long luscious hair that made my mousy tresses look like carpeting. She was always just out of reach, just one new skincare routine away. Well, it’s enough. Enough hauntings. Enough demons. I am going to open my big fat arms to myself–to her, to him, to it, to them, to me to me to me to me my flying monkeys–and if in a few seconds I’m nothing but bones and ash, a morbid memory of a body, then so be it. I’ll see my alters again down in Hell and we can reconnect. Get coffee. Sip it with a scoff in our lips, lean across the table and wonder aloud, should we get out of here?