like the ink whispered on my wrist.

does it disturb you to see me like this?

to see me.

to see a book on the table that wants to be read…

not like some smutty magazine with photoshopped fantasies.

the cover screaming at your eyes and hormones

or some newspaper with headlines…

always headlines

never articles.

never conversations.

never chapters and pages.

snap judgements. snap your neck around.

drive thru information.

we're afraid of spending time.

does it disturb you that there's a story to tell?

one that's alive and keeps unraveling.

i'm bored of looking at your cover

and reading the back description and all of the articles and reviews

by trusted, but unknown people…

because really i just want to read you for myself

and not have it interpreted.

i'm happy to learn the language…

i'm happy to sit and be quiet…

while you speak. tell. say. sing. walk.

i l l u s t r a t e

live!

everything that lies beneath.

and with every tight lipped acknowledgement

every weird situation

the text is branded on my skin

the response that: you don't see me.

the response that: you don't want to.

move along merry fool.

even my most extravagant of dreams,

just underneath are quite simple.

a deep current of frustration and pain i harbor and channel into

work and art and… well… this.

recompose it before it decomposes me.

i refuse to settle.
refuse to wither.
to be a victim and shut down and check out…

like. all. the. rest. of. them.

but keep on kicking my bruises

and i'll warn you just before…

but i'm being pushed toward the line of exasperation.

i will throw the next punch.

i will burnout and speed off and recklessly disappear.

because i'm sick with worry.

twisted by envious comparisons.

soul sick and livid with all of this injustice.

overstimulated and uninspired by these dramatic tantrums that are a waste of my time

allowing all these opinions to define me.

dear city, why am i the object of your rejection?

why does it offend you if i should taste affection?

why is my smile distasteful?

what deal do you have with karma that says i'm exempt from recompense?

and what do you have on grace that makes her overlook my downcast face?

God forbid i be a beauty that rests in that.

A beauty that is reveled in and enjoyed…

not taken for granted, advantage, misused, under-appreciated, discarded…

used.

because, all we really want is to be loved in return.

let me love well.

let me be loved.

beloved.

like the ink whispered on my wrist.