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The things I'm most ashamed of are those that make me normal.
I like to see straight-looking women making out with other women.
(It's farcical. It must be farcical, lest it becomes real
-- normal people don't fantasize of being excluded)
I'm happy when I look at the sea, shirtless, sipping
(cold yerba mate is a thing here.) I would not like my nose pierced.

I was born to be broken, and my normalcy is a perversion
One of those fetishes that one doesn't talk about. Cf. cross-dressing et cetera
I carry deep hurt. My sadness is without bound or answer.
And I revel wallowing in it like a broken person should
I'm nourished by self-destruction. I shed my skin
to feed the oysters living in the walls of the void inside.
By all reasons my soul should be rotting. I have no self to inhabit it.

The things I'm most ashamed of make me the most real.
The night I was born my fate was sealed. I was to be flow, not earth
I was to be an inchworm or a seagull,
(or rather the sound of their slow, meaningless deaths)
I should not be amenable to second-order Runge-Kutta methods.
Mirrors defy me. Photographs haunt me. I'm not supposed to be remembered by others.

I'm not supposed to enjoy being bathed by women
-- my whole skin should be scratched by thorns so I can't feel pleasure.
I shouldn't adjust my seat when my back hurts. Without the pain, the void will starve.
If the void starves, there will be no more oysters
and without oysters, how am I supposed to write poems?

If my soul does not rot, but is filled with sex and wealth and tenderness,
what shall I report back to the gods that chained me inside this body?
Will I resort to making up harrowing stories based on gentle evils
and mine the darkest corners of my personal mythologies
and color my shifting egos with psychopathies
and bring samples of blue grass from forests in Indiana?
(Will I have to go to Indiana? I'm told it's a boring place,
and having no self to look into, I cannot afford any tedium)

I do not want to admit failure. I do not want to turn back with a smile.
I keep meticulous accounting of my curses and wounds
they're not few in number or dry in depth
but if even adolescent feet in adorned flip-flops give me joy
I might lose it all.