The Rebirth by Dean S. Parris

I made myself in their image by the time I was 13.
Squeezed my body into the pieces of their machine.
My laugh was too boisterous, so I would snicker.
My smile too wide, I snapped it.
My heart broke too easy, I built myself- a machine
 
This armored thing that they deemed strength
Trodden on, I half-smiled through the pain
I could still feel as my soul drained
to power whatever in me that was still alive

 
For six years I hid what didn’t fit their mold.
I did not notice my spirit withering.
Nor the dimming of my queerer identities
Nor my starving creativity

My dark skin was the only thing I never hid.

But I am not the machine.
That stoic shell was not even most of me
I bend and break, but more
I am a heartbeat, and my footsteps their own rhythm
 
I am the guitar player who only knows 3 chords

That friend you watch bad TV with

That poet drinking coffee, an unashamed romantic

I am possibility itself
I am opportunity
I am my arms spread wide, head held high
Proclaiming my existence
Demanding the universe notice.
 
I will tattoo my body with the words of my soul
And dedicate myself to a new way of being
I will smash the machine and walk in the sunshine
I will scatter the pieces and dance in the rain.
 
I will smash the machine and walk in the sunshine
I will scatter the pieces and dance in the rain.