22 - Poster

Curvy season is over, he mumbles
under his breath to assist his spelling.
His nails are dirty, something antifungal
needs prescribing to stop it smelling. 

Fat digits slam unwanted thoughts publicly,
the truth (he thinks)- he knows they’ll all agree.
That’s the fun of echo chambers, you shout
and hear your own voice untwisted reroute.

Other men, so equally dejected,
quickly join in with glee. “We’re not alone!”
In their space where dissent is rejected. 
In their space that reeks of sweat-stale cologne. 

They love your very form and hate your mind
You don’t deserve be, you exist as defined.