I had a mild, bloody birth, and I don’t go outdoors each morning. 
I don’t wait to glow in photos in which I fail to appear.  
The work I do isn’t attractive and my career isn’t where you come from. 
I can’t just hang out and carve notes to strange men. 
But I keep staring up at these men who are taller than me.  
Like I did something wrong in the first place.  
There’s a certain type of tall man who has nothing to do.  
They love to be talked to in worshipful ways. 
They love the grammar of my worship and they love to scratch their beards.  
This logic isn’t connected to my symbolic suggestion. 
Now I know I am a man, a man who knows he will never glow. 
My hand is a hand that says two hours left. 
I won’t stay under trees outside for any man.