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...