My Nana always said I had good skin.
Fair skin,
littered with freckles ("Angel Kisses")
and soft with baby fat I've yet to grow out of.
I have my Mother's hair,
soft and red like blood spilt.
Strangers always gushed about how pretty it was.
Age has not painted me in a lovely light.
I wobble on tip-toes,
trying to reach the top shelf.
My fingers are stained with ink
with paint
with graphite
with charcoal-
My nails are broken and soft.
This skin binds me to a history
I can't help but hate.
The mourning, the grief
The anger, the ire;
The desperate pleas to go back
to hide away.
I'll listen;
I've always hated confrontation, anyways.
I can't rewrite my history,
nor can I turn back the needles on my watch.
So I'll rewrite myself instead.
I'll dye my hair until it's fit for a museum.
I'll burrow into my flesh and crown the wound with jewels.
I'll make my skin a canvas until you mistake me for art.
I'll do all these things
until I am lovely only to myself-
Until you flee from my presence
from the sight of me alone.
I'll remind myself its better this way,
as I surround my Ruins with those
who will gaze upon the spectacle that is my Self,
and weep-
Love unbound christen their tears and for Once
I am Whole