When you were a boi, you knew you were
So different you wanted to
Cut off a finger just to show the world how
Singular you were.
Resorted to scraping the flesh off the
Backside of your hand with a butter knife
For pain so certain you deserved.
And now, as a boi grown to fill his
Shell of skin, still different,
But perhaps not so singular,
Your dreams of splashing blood
Against the wall, soaked down to the sofa
Still as frequent, but hopefully
As a man you have learned that
These are just dreams,
No different from any other man's,
Contrary to your mother's singular vision
That you're doing this just to hurt her.
 

~Jan Brian Vis