Dysphoria

I am devout to the primitive devices of my
captivity. A barber runs his razor against the back
of my neck, its angry bites like a conversion between
faiths, its intimate hum
gymnastic against my skin
and shaving off the feminine barnacles that
grew. I feel like a contortionest,
flexing against the walls of my box like
dark coal, squeezing and trusting in
the cultural mutation:
Dumb, begging,
diced up into a "functional human being"
as if I need handlebars to depend on my own legs
because this is sexiest;
captured is sexiest.
A wearable filter between what I feel and what
I tell the members of my church. My first
cat call will be an achievemant, a hot bonus and then
two-more problems; I will have earned my status
as a prophet, but at a higher price.