His Comfort

I have a date for top surgery

And all I’ve thought about since

Paying the deposit

With my savings that I need to

Survive on, without income

Being between careers and

Between genders and

Between friends, all I can think about

Is how unbelievably stupid I must be

To invite such trauma and tragedy

Into my life, willingly.

Trauma that no one will understand

Or appreciate, or be able to empathize with.

Trauma that I’ve experienced before

In worse circumstances.

To spend ten thousand dollars

To have some narcissistic psychopath

Plastic surgeon who doesn’t take insurance

Carve all the “tissue” off my chest

Seems like something an idiot would do—

In my egomaniac opinion I think perhaps

Humans are more wolf than sheep

He called it “tissue” for my comfort but —

I think it was his comfort, instead.

I know that in the years to come

I will be happier, but right now

I don’t feel comfortable about it.


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