Glassy Eyed, Soft Curls by Marsh W. A.

The Government says

I don't exist,

I'm 14 years old

again.

The Head of the Government

stands at a rally

of angry vultures.

I address a letter

to my Mama,

I'm so sorry.

And it's not her fault.

The people who represent me

push new laws

to tell me I cannot exist.

In my seventh-grade history class

we all promised

this would never happen again.

But the boy I sit next to

He calls me names

for the short hair

I was so proud of.

We laugh as I braid our hair

His curls curled around mine.

For just a moment I forget,

The vultures.

---

Marsh W. A. is often found haunting their college art studio. From body horror and queer joy to bittersweet acceptance of trauma, he explores dark shadowy corners where language meets indescribable grief. Currently trying to get published, they can be reached at: swampywriting@gmail.com