Stainless skin moves round in clockwise circles of ink.
Pacing the cemented down stainless steel oval of tables that have worn too many men’s impressions to go unmarked.
Cold in my oversized orange dress & watch these callused conferences carrying into cackles & I forget.
Where I am.
I shit in front of peers & we all wore the same sin.
I did my hair in the scratched piece of metal called a mirror and brushed my teeth next to those you would not associate with or sit next to on the bus.
I haven’t slept.
I wrote this with my back turned & haven’t flinched.
These are not monsters.
These are just men. Artists. Poets.
Made to wear the wrong skin.
-Joshua Tool 05/25/17