July 2016

You can’t ask me to tell you where it started…
Since birth a description was written for me 
by every hand that was big enough to hold a pen.
We knew I couldn’t speak, 
so they assigned a title for me
figuring my silence was a good enough signal for consent.

But I guess you can’t blame them,
we would all be pretty hard to tell apart if we went by the sounds of an infant,
but It wasn’t just the name.
It was the features of my face. 
You said I had beautiful hair,
but somehow my legs were still too out of shape.

If I could choose to not hear you now when you speak 
like I wasn’t able to then, trust me I would.

We all throw up words.
Careless - we infect the ones around us.
Quarantine thoughts of self hate in our minds, 
giving us a made up right to hurt anyone that came too close.

We’re just keeping them safe. 
We say that it’s your fault if you get too hurt. 
That maybe you should grow up to have thicker skin. 
You want us to morph so that we can fit in because blending always somehow made it easier.
But you didn’t check how bad the mold might hurt us. 

Now half our generation is ripping their skin off to show the blood.
Every skeleton bursting at the seam for answers 
as to why it is that I feel like this -
Help me. 
Teach me how to look at me the way you did.
Tell me the way my skin sits is just as beautiful as northern lights 
see, I want to be rare too.

Want to wake up with the mentality that I think movie stars do.
I can’t view them as similar so I assumed I was the one who was made wrong.
Strung together with broken parts and leftovers feelings 
I am told to compare what I see,
but what I see is a failed carbon copy of everything that is not me. 
I failed at becoming their definition,
so now I’m trying to make my own.

I’ve learned that who defines you on paper doesn’t really know,
that maybe passing down their insecurities isn’t justified through blood. 
For its your blood that you need most. 
You should be proud no matter how it’s shown. 

No person wants to admit that they were wrong, 
but taking a step back is better than not walking at all.
I stopped searching for their thin lines inside of mine 
and when I did, I began to stop fearing my skin. 

Became comfortable with the idea of not knowing what it is that I want 
and though I don’t remember much,
I do remember when I finally woke up.
The day I took the shadows off
and felt light run through my skull. 
In and out of the pores of my skin
purging all the negativity I held,
because I know that I am light, 
and through my words i’ll burn you alive.
This time.