August (again)

by Simon Kelley

 

It’s August again,

and the dysphoria

has never been so bad.

 

There’s a bird on the porch.

I envy her simple life;

 

She’s never desired to

snip her feathers,

starve herself,

drop out of the air.

 

She only sits and rests,

awaiting the day her children

are born

so she can fly off

and collect food for them.

 

Most days,

I don’t feel real;

 

These words aren’t mine

and neither are the hands

they were written with.

 

I wonder if one day

I’ll feel at home

in this body.

If the days will pass

as real moments,

instead of as a blur.

 

It’s August again,

like it will be next year,

and the year after that,

and the year after that.