Teacups and Tears

I tread through the door with my flaccid plastic containing sweet sweets,

ones that I treat myself to oh too very often,

but I find my longing sister and my dreading mother hammering

flashing ultimatums, instantly, not confined

torn into pieces and latched into a beautiful teacup,

a teacup that cannot be gestured into, nor fulfilled.

This teacup is all that embodies gender socialisation,

and all that I am against. This teacup negates

the big red cut on seamless white skin, or

a painted black nail with all the pale

ones contrasting or me standing next to a dead person; paradigms

between life and not.

The teacup flashes as it cripples and breaks and thrashes

itself onto the old marble floor. The pieces laying adjacent

almost formed a perfect circle or star, but the pieces

were too very apart and I realised that I am, and she is

the pieces that were too apart because she is not a teacup.

I am not a teacup.

Oh daddy you live so far apart

and have you not started to dread

this arrangement you have loved from the start

or have you not rethought

your beautiful silverly arrangement?

Can a doctor be always right?

Or can’t one misjudge, since doctors are born human

and daddy, you are a human.

I think of all the miles banging between the island and the land

and all the hours it can

take before I see that face

that supposedly wishes me well, but I don’t notice.

I do not talk to my brother and I do not talk to my sister

But I talk to myself and I know myself.

And I ask if knowing yourself is worth over fulfilling

that teacup everyone surrounding you begs you

again and again to

fill

and every time, every where, every place:

all the lands I travel and all the stars I gaze.

All the gardens of Mullingar, and the countryside

of Letterkenny and the turquoise deep twilight sky

of Exeter and prowling boredom of Douglas and Ramsey

and Lahore’s brutal pollution and and and

and I know that I know myself

because I have awarded myself the time.

I do not look down, I do not frown and I do not crown myself

as an elite, or an academic or someone who is so better

that he is so far up his own privileged dynamic

that he cannot consider what others

think of him. I just believe

in myself. I believe in my

values. I believe in what

I am accustomed to,

and what you

begged me

to become

all this

time.

You got your wish,

and now I have discovered mine.

Now regret your wish, and all that is left behind.

I am not going to apologise.

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