Gut Feeling

I wonder if repression has some kind of physical affliction, some metabolical aftermath. Like I have have a Katamari Damacy ball of gayness soaking up stomach acid in my tum tum. Whenever I don’t embrace the femme side of me it grows and staggers in this self-induced homophobic prison I have created from fear of parental rejection and dumbass society and comments from regular dudes. This inescapable, internal, infernal, fear gripping me with the vice-like grip of a deathclaw (not the one you get toys and prizes with). I am forever searching for myself yet I am never truly accepting myself as I am, the whole of me. As if I’m unpacking an empty box and weighing it on the scales of life. Existentialism for the half-hearted. The cowardly dog sniffing out courage pieces at a time. Bacon bits of bravery satisfying inner turmoil knots.


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