Wistful I waited. Watch the deforestation of your soft unbeating heart. Your rib cage grey, decay of driftwood decorating last vestiges, what remains of your shape. So still,

made vulnerable to me, poured all secrets from the spill of your neck.

Dissipate from split bones into the air above,
you are more now than you were before
Mangled limbs are your angel wings
Phantom body, an empty butterfly cocoon.
Forgive my envy for your ascension

I think of you often.

Did you like how you were dappled? Was your tail too long? Did your slightness of frame haunt you because you thought you looked wrong?

Were you jealous of antlers? Did you pick out branches, a makeshift pair?
Did you want to know what it felt like to look like a boy?
Tell me, would you have forgone it, that moment when you were hit?
Did you curse corporeal existence when betrayed by your skin?

I think of you often.

Unfixed gaze, the bathroom mirror, weary brown eyes just like yours, just missing flies, and the smell of corpse.

Features I despise.

A wretched face, shoulders too large, a maw not so graceful, “you look perfect, you should be grateful”. I wish I was as fragile as you.

I think of you often

Quinn (she/they) is an artist living in London. When she is not feeding pigeons in green park, she writes about queer and trans experiences, and loves to draw both cute and ugly critters.