Don't let a piece of paper define you
You write who you are
You don't rub out
You leave a mark

Your romance carved into trees
Your sadness watercolours of ink
Your happiness an explosion of paint
Your anger scrunched up beside the bin

You write essays on stories you don't care for
Read something that makes your heart cling to your chest seeking love
Something that makes your brain question the very beauty of life
Something that gives you goosebumps with feelings you cant explain

They are scared of how strong you really are
Schools don't educate they dictate
Educate yourself
You are the greatest teacher

Your brain is the self made nuke
They are scared you are going to blow
A war that is your true self
Its better to fight standing than fearing on your knees.

I’ve tattooed a line across
the veins of my wrist
and marked a down stroke
for every time
“you can’t wear red lipstick”
made me believe
I never wanted to in the first place.

for every time instead
I’ve stained my lips with cherries
learning how to tie the stems
so I can slip forget-me-knots
to the back of your throat—
do you feel my restriction now?

the razors that fly off my tongue
perk thorns on my skin,
another down stroke on my wrist
will teach me that
you were right,
shyness is a virtue.

no need to speak,
go spend one hundred dollars
and some percent for tax
to cover up,
even though I’m sure your mother told you
that cotton stains.

so make it black.
get your hair stuck
in the zipper of that sundress
and pray as you pull it out
that it will lose its pigmentation
in the process
mark a down stroke
for killing two flowers
for one bouquet.

hold it
close your eyes and throw it back,
I know we shouldn’t be wearing white anyway
but tradition can take a lot out of you
like what you really think—
don’t say **** in public.

instead drag your first impressions
all the way to the altar
and dress in your Sunday best
a flower on your lapel
clear on your lips
a stroke for the neat decline
of the son

I tattooed a line across
the veins of my wrist
and marked a down stroke
for every time
my image
was my fault.

When you come home
bring forth a garden, a storm
all the colors of you
a flower petaled rain befalls me
a soaking, sweeping view
from mountains you come
calmly with rain
deep from earth's core
sweet with petrichor
encircling softly warm
attracts me magnetically
stupefies me uncontrollably
though I know the killing hour
will come crushing, empty and forlorn.