Some nights I can dream better than others.
The light splitting off a metallic sheen,
ruined wallpaper. This is not who I am.

Indecisions. I am the King, the God, of them.
Following situations like a video game:
Game Over. The sound Pac-Man makes
when caught by a ghost - that's me.

A mouth was wasted when I was created;
I use it for all the wrong things.
It's not speaking, it's excreting - recycled.
Not everyone likes their own brand.

Some days, a half hour staring at myself,
Calling reflections every name beneath the Sun,
convinced. Soon, introductions, I'll spew out
my own name. And then I'll feel ashamed.

Is this a revelation which is a by-product
of fate? Is this the less revealing alternative
to a midnight waltz with a lit cigarette end
or the blade of a pencil sharpener?

2B or not 2B. A pun. It was never funny.
I've grown since pre-teen afternoon cross-dressing,
but is that really so? Do you stop being a drag queen
when you take off all your clothes?

No one put a knife between my shoulder blades, I don't think,
but I hurt and I shiver, lights dancing around my eyes.
I'm heaving, wheezing, on all fours. I'll ask again:
How can I be sure?