Agape |
Issue 11
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I have not felt like myself for a long time. Since I went to college and my face warped into who I knew I’ve been all along. Since my mind warped with it, and I walked for miles in the rain to escape it talking to me. Since before I still saw him in strangers, and my avoidance of people manifested again. When my mother acted as if the only issue between us was my being queer, and any attempts at vulnerability were delegated by prayer.
I have not felt like myself for a long time. Since I ignored the signs that my boyfriend didn’t love me anymore, because I wasn’t sure I had ever loved him to begin with, and the idea of being loved unconditionally was too good to pass up. Back when I would cry, laugh, then cough consecutively and apologize for it, because that’s not what whole people do. Since I went out of my way to keep trouble in my life, because the feeling reminded me of something I had lost. I have not felt like myself for a long time. Since I told my mother what had happened to me then, and then, and then, and she told me it happened to her too. Since I started blaming her for it. Since before my father hurt me for the last time, and I forged my identity under his image because he only felt unconditional love for himself, and the idea of self-sustenance was too good to pass up. I have not felt like myself for a long time. Since I would visit my abuela in Puerto Rico and equate doorless hinges to a quirk of poverty. Since my neighbor would sob and beg to sleep somewhere else during sleepovers. Since he convinced us both to play hide and seek, and told me the best hiding spot was in the bathroom. I knew something was wrong then, but the thought of winning was too good to pass up. I have not felt like myself for a long time. Since before then, when I was in elementary school and found myself crying for no reason I knew of, and I could exist in rooms full of people and still feel alone. Back when I forged my identity under a god’s image, because the thought of being loved unconditionally was too good to pass up. Since before I was born, and my mother cried like the time I spent in her took more than just her body. |
MICK MUERTE is a Latine, Taíno, trans-masc currently studying Creative Writing as a senior in undergrad. While he enjoys writing poems, his main passion for writing is through Creative Non-Fiction, where he often explores how his intersectionality as trans, indigenous, and low-income affect his relationships with those around him.
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