pinocchio

i carefully chisel my wooden face,
chopping my hair into short curtain bangs.
i force my chest into staying in place,
freeing myself from the strings where i hang.
i hide my joints carved from soft cypress wood,
running far from the world where i was made.
my perfect masculine form—that falsehood
is the reality for which i prayed,
but all the world sees is a spectacle,
to laugh and point and then throw me under.
yet the mockery is acceptable
for pinocchio, wooden-boy wonder.
i’ll never grow old, i’ll remain a toy;
i can’t be a man, let alone a boy.