It’s true. I cannot kill a pig with my bare hands. It’s a hard rule
to live by— not distancing ourselves from the terror that brings
us joy. I want to feel good after a meal without the smell of death
on my hands. After all, unfortunately, the pig gives me so much
pleasure. Every morning, I wake up & offer myself humanness.
What does it mean to be human? To be the opposite
of a machine, of course.
I want to be as flexible as my glass-covered father. Instead,
I bend to the mistake of the habitual; mess up until
the messiness compounds into something I can’t ignore.
I gave up womanhood to be a cyborg. I want to be as impulsive
as a computer program—everything all predetermined & bending
to human composition. Every need thrusting into me
long enough to drain the womb from my palms. Let’s continue lubricate my vessels
& store my emotions in a blender. Pick a task for me
to do over & over— wash the dishes— fetch the remote—
suffocate the girlhood from me— I’ll shoot up
any microchip if it makes me into a god. The god that I know even said
I look more like him.
It’s true. I cannot kill who I used to be even with
technology. What does that mean for me then?
KB is a Black queer genderless poet, educator, organizer, and student affairs professional. They have earned many fellowships and publications, most recently from Lambda Literary, Cincinnati Review, The Offing, and Equality Texas. Catch them talking sweetness and other (non)human things online at @earthtokb.