Snow falling.
Ash rising.
Pump blood.
Breathe smoke.
Live art.
Screech obscenities.
Make love.
Show scars.
Create beauty.
Destroy yourself.

I am a fixture.

I am a body
whose frigid fingers
feel the nape of your neck.

I am a picture
that is only seen
(and never heard),
that makes the space prettier
with my paralyzed presence.

I am a pair of eyes that reflect light,
I am a pair of ears that hold your voice,
I am a nose that pulls your sweet scent from the air
and in doing so,
I make you real.

But I am not.
I am,
simply,
a fixture.

We were misfits
the neglected *******
of a backwards world
that rejected us
not because we were sick
demented or dangerous
but because we didn't prescribe
to a preconceived notion
of what a functioning citizen was.

Not rotten enough to spoil
behind the bars of a prison
just competent enough
to work menial jobs
and drown our sorrows
at the corner pub.

We swallowed this hard truth
the same way we drank our shots
with no chaser
and at times it burnt
maybe even made us tear up
but we never let it beat us
(too strong for that)

We were beautiful
resilient beasts
that could carry the weight
of the world upon our shoulders
and it was heavy
but we would tell ourselves
"doesn't every world need an atlas?"
so we went on holding up the sky
when no one asked it of us.

you are not your grades or your scars
your height or your weight
you are not your face or the color of your hair

you are the person you define yourself to be
you are who you want to be
you are not the opinion of the people around you

you are your soul
be it old or young
you have lived many lives
and this is just the beginning

Beauty should
Never be measured
By skin
Hair, make-up, money
Nor fame.

For we
Are meant to be more
Than simple
Mannequins designed by
Paid keepers.

Beauty is
Enchanting dreams that
Dance upon
The surface of your
Living soul.

The glimmer
In wide eyes watching
Boats sway
To silent melodies beneath
The sky.

Beauty was
Never meant to be used
Against ambitious
Children trapped inside our
Broken hearts.

We were
Meant to love the bodies
We have
Been given; like a small child
Holding flowers.

-ARI