stop giving ******* excuses
how we can't work
cos you know we do
you know we glued
you know we clicked
since the first time we met
and not because
i have more metals on my body now.
Holes in my ears? 8.
But including the ones in my heart?
Or my soul?
Or my head?
Too many to count.
I punch holes in my ears
To mask the pain of the holes in my heart
That she created when she left.
Like seeing the ghosts of the people I loved
I scan through crowds and avoid their faces
Faces as magnets attract my eyes
My vision is blurry, it's time to go
I stumble through hallways
My head hangs low,
Avoiding those faces as magnets.
The girl with the piercings
The guy with tattoos
That person whose hair is a dark grayish blue
Those people have faces as magnets.
A poem about my anxiety of running into old friends and making new ones.
Accept that only the good die young
And the rest of us are here to stay
I think I can cry in public
Make you see me cry
Whole and free you can tuck me in
Your shirt pocket is my home
You can place down the picture of my brother
While we don't know how to love
I take it off too quickly
For you I would refrain from mistakes
I would become what you make of me
Style and sauce from my lips
Hell and fury is our friend and fortune-maker
Sorry for being your good girl
They say that mistakes are meant to be lessons
I'm learning how fun they are to repeat
I'm still learning how to kick it
Swinging like a child
I don't know how to be right
Just a single shot thrown back at my life
Firstly, I'm not a body-shamer.
To each their own
(a good phrase, though grammatically incorrect),
But sometimes I find it hard to understand
The tatoos, the piercings, the colors and placements.
The usual answer, if I dare ask:
Good for you.
Does the diaper pin through your cheek
Tell us you're a Dad or something.
The quarter inch bolt and nut through your ear?
Are you a machinist or a plumber, or something?
The doll-house plates in your lips?
Are you a Duck Dynasty fan?
A member of the Audubon Society or something?
Sorry, what was that?
I'm sorry. I don't quite get what you're saying.
I don't mean to be rude,
But could you express those plates for a minute... I... I get it.
My body is not my own.
My body belongs to my mother.
Because every time I got a new tattoo I would ask if she likes it.
And if course, she would say no
And I would be upset because I actually liked it.
But now I have snakebites.
Two small holes below my lower lip
And I'm absolutely terrified
Of her finding out.
A man on a podium
Talking right and wrong
The boy with the piercings and tattoos
Kneeling hands folded head down
The collection gets passed around
Judgement being passed around
About this boy with the piercings
A lost soul looking for a home
Trying to forgive and forget.
Trying to repent and receive forgiveness.
"Go in peace"
People start leaving
Talking to each other
The boy with the piercings remains
Head down, hands folded, front row.
Giving another prayer up
A prayer of acceptance with these people
He's just another lost soul like the rest
Trying to find his home
My favorite parts about myself
Are the metal rods
Protruding from my skin
How is it that I cherish
The things I added
My favorite features are stitched in
Mounted to my skin
For I do not find much beauty
But my expression of me
Is slowly getting to
Where I need it to be
Decorating my skin
Soon I hope to have ink
Streaking my surface
Shards of the inner me
Out where everyone can see
*maybe one day