Ronan Ira
Dysphoric ODE
this is how it goes—
sit in a therapist’s office
want to spill my roadkill guts
but my becoming is still fledgling, panic
claws stuck in the throat.
so i just say i’m tired instead;
fall asleep on the bus
wait for the world to right itself
for form to be an afterthought.
inside me is an angry man with a bone to pick
and a body to pick over like carrion.
i’ve got good bones like an old house—
it’s too bad about the meat.
some days i’m barely treading water
and the body is a pocket full of stones weighing
on the mind
like the location of a corpse
i can’t help but return to
kicking at the turned earth.
so often i dreamt of butchery
of donating my body to science so i wouldn’t have to live in it
let someone else deal with the mess
oh, what a relief—
to let some stranger’s hands reach into the red wet darkness
strip out the rot that makes the house unlivable
drag me into the light.
Ronan Ira is a Pōneke-based creature who enjoys collecting words and occasionally writing them. You can find their work online in Starling and circular.