I.
Did I ask for this,
this cold air, this profane
stark light? “Electricity”
they’ll teach me one day
but what they don’t say I’ll have to
pay with blood to learn when
all I want is to be myself.

II.
Are those my eyes,
fixed on the final twist of
unbecoming, the light they reflect dull
and opaque? Will they ever find
who profaned me? Is that
my blood on the floor? I don’t
remember. Some will say I asked
for this but I didn’t.

©A. D. Joyce, 2014