Poetry by Fitz

I’ve always been loved by my family, but
I’ve never loved myself.
Is it the friends that I’ve lost or pushed away
Or is it something else?

I’ve never been touched by a man, no.
No hand to hold mine safe
And I can’t shake the feeling this visceral feeling
That I won’t until my wake;
Until the embalmer’s scalpel sews me wide, slices me shut and fake
I’ll never know if I were me
Until it’s far too late

Do you think my family love me? Through obligation or through fate?
They’re perfect, really, pretty diamonds
But carbon dissipates

That’s what we are, isn’t it? Carbonic matter forced into lattices
Cages by design who free our cells and our minds

Suits of liberation to love and be loved

But if we don’t like our suits, then what lies above?
To hell with the doves! There are no clothes that I like

No outfit.
No costume?
No shield against my strike

I don’t know how to love myself
I don’t know if that’s fright
Do I love myself? Just maybe;
I hate the thought that’s right.