Pretty Words
I was not born with
Poetry on my skin.
I seemed to myself
A plain paper husk,
Devoid of captivating
Cursive verse. I was
Bored of myself and
My soft-spoken skin,
And I coveted the
Vintage calligraphy
That graces the lips
And lines the eyes
Of poets and those
They write about.
Then I felt them move—
Loopless, jagged letters.
The old-fashioned lead marks
Leaked into my blood,
Poisoned my brain.
Sharp k's and x's shredded my flesh,
Clawed their way
From my bones to my skin.
And suddenly,
The words were there for all to see.
I was finally
The poem I always wanted to be:
My eyes lined
Blue with sleepless nights,
Lips split and stained blood red
From a fight against myself I will never win—
Look! I said.
Look, everyone, at the scarred, sickly creature
I have become!
No one really looked though,
Except for the girls I used to look at in the mirror.
I like your makeup,
They said.
The stories that need to be written, they aren't floating in the air around your head. If you can't feel the words in your bones, don't write them. If they are there, don't tear them out. Be patient with your muse, it's dreaming...
