Scrolling on my phone I am
bombarded with words
that cut
through my skin muscles tendons and
bone marrow.
I don’t exist. And if I do
I am a plant. But if I’m not
I can’t be human. But if I am
I must be a psychopath. But if I’m not
I am a liar.
Or a special snowflake. With convoluted
labels that serve only to confuse
and rank somewhere in
importance between
a mosquito and a pile of excretement
which at least fertilizes
the ground.