Bastard
A five-pound bastard,
conceived by teens high on weed.
“Wanna fuck?” he asked.
“Sure.”
And that’s how I came
to be—abandoned,
raised by morons
too small to care who I was.
And what if I am
a glorious bastard-queen?
Forged of rebellion, opportunity, and fire,
an amalgam of daring, rejection, bile.
A glorious fucking mistake!
No name, no home, no family,
born in a blood-soaked body of shame and tears.
I see with my eyes.
I see you and how you do everything right.
That is not my way.
Along the bastard’s path,
I shed false skins with each step.
I stare down shame; I make myself new.
I am the life-bearing Earth!
I drink the sour-sweet nectar of life!
I am fat, ugly, scrawny, dimply, and dumb.
Look at me—I am you.
I declare my path as righteous as yours.
Once crippled, blind to who I was,
I know now: I am dirt, I am sex, I am life.
I plant seeds—my shame and all that I am,
a mirror.
You are also shame.
You are also a foundling.
You are dust, sparked by teenagers fucking.
You are regret and despair.
You cower in fear, you hide—
“Am I good enough?” you meekly ask.
Stand tall. You are life!
I bow to you,
you fucking bastard.
Author: Megan Dey-Toth
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