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