Injection Rejection

When I look in the mirror,

I see you crossing your arms in defiance.

For the third time, 

you rejected my attempts to fix you.

I was patient.

I was forgiving.

I was hopeful.

I trusted you.

And you have the audacity 

to childishly lash out with a rash.

How dare you?

How dare you reject 

what you should have been doing on your own

this entire time?

It’s all your fault.

This is your mess,

and I’m trying to clean it.

I’m trying to help you!

Why can’t you  

help   

me   

help   

you?

GODDAMN IT!

Look at me 

when I’m talking to you!

Disgusting.

You’re so ugly when you cry.

I hate the way your face acts out as an aggressive, anaphylactic, reaction.

I hate the way your sobs sound like a sickly, suffering, seal.

I hate everything about you.

You really can’t do anything right, 

can you?

And you’re so fucking filthy.

You need to be sterilized.

So in a shameful, shuddering, shower

you stand as I

s c r u b a n d s c r a t c h a n d s c r a p e 

your skin

until it’s raw and red.

And your teeming tears form an estuary with the torrential tap water,

And your shoulders shake with each moronic moan,

And your temples throb with every thunderous thump and thud of your heart.

But it’s not good enough.

I won’t stop 

until the last of the false flesh has fled.

I’ll rearrange your bones into the correct concatenation.

I’ll reorganize your original organs into the appropriate anatomy.

I’ll reform your faulty, feminine, physique into the proper personage.

Then, I will water your wounds,

and you will grow.

And you will finally

look like me.