In My Box Poem by Tsani Jones

There is blood on the glass.
Smeared in a pattern
All senses have broken down,
The raw nerves eroded.

The masked invaders
Show themselves to poke and prod
Find what makes me tick
What makes me so different from them.

We attack and destroy
That which is different
In our world of absolutes
Nothing must grow wild and free.

I slink to the corner
Wearing the filth they
Have covered me in,
Cowering from their prods...

The sting of electric is
The shortest circuit,
A last bastion of love dies
And shame is held blameless.

I am not the normal creature
I am the final disenfranchised hope
I embody all that they fear,
And they stick me again.

The blood is my own.