It truly is a shame
It's a shame that this evil never left after it came
The residual, dry back shot residue leaves a stain
After every time I'm sccrewed and they remain
Those ones don't rinse off in the rain
The rain that came all the same
Leading me to aim my point at and then claim
That I'll never see life the same

©2024

Forever slipping, sitting at the bottom of the top of the food chain
Trying to stay dialed in, working on removing my latest stain while older ones still remain
Struggling with another rebuild from the ground up, "job well done" but never paid
One crucial thing was forgotten, no foundation laid
I've played and been played, gone when I shoulda stayed
Had my faith destroyed by the faithful though I've recently prayed
My mental health convinced me to refuse medical aid, at least by anyone trained
Stood and faced the death brigade firing squad and I'm the idiot who brought a blade
Witnessing the beginning of the end, acid rain on my parade
No wrongs righted, song and dance quieted, exposing the charade
A tailor-made masquerade, face the price when dues aren't paid
I fell to the fray, had to say, "today's your day Satan" but not to be a renegade
But because I'm pretty sure I make the man upstairs afraid
He hasn't answered any of the calls I've made

©2023

I've scoured off my skin needing to scrub it out
I've exfoliated to the bone wanting to rub it out
I've been used and abused hoping to love it out
I've put on twenty pounds trying to grub it out

BUT
(Who doesn't love a big but?)

There's no infomercial-Oxy-booster to clean this stain
(Your absence a dark blotch in my sight)

There's no late-night ShamWow-savior to absorb this pain
(This displaced grief and fright)

There's no thought deep enough to wash you from my brain
(Nor the contrail of confusion behind your flight)

There's no shower cold enough, it weathers even this caustic rain
(Love's inexhaustible light)

Misogyny tastes like the sanitary pad that has been used by her,
over and over again.
So it is not stained in blood but
soaked in blood.

I'm a stain.
My life and personality is just a stain
I'm ink across the paper
of society.

I'm red.
I'm always angry at something or someone
And yet I'm always smiling and laughing
along with their insults.

I'm not broken, people just want to erase me.
I'm not supposed to be here, they say.
My type of weird
Is unacceptable to society, they say.

But each one of us is a different color
spread across this paper, no canvas
that is society
each of us a stain, no a streak

A brush of personality no one else can have
Together we are beautiful
and no one is going to tell me
that I'm not beautiful without lying to themselves

and being the same only makes the painting boring

My mother told me to leave my mark
wherever I went.
When I asked her what did she mean,
She told me,
How she wanted me to leave
my name and my brand
as a symbol and signature
of my 'identity'.

'Identity', how would it look like...
Will it be tall so that it can
reach success even without climbing up.
Will it be hour-glass with curves
large enough to be liked.
Will it be fair so that it can be lonely too.
Will it be rich so that it can purchase Bugatti and Bentley.
Will it be smart so that it can create its success if it is not provided with any.
Will it be beautiful so that it can make people stop and stare.
Will it be kind so that it heals and saves what has been killed.
Or will it be soft so that it weighs every word before it speaks?

But then my mother told me your identity is 'you'.
But I cannot become my identity because I am not a signature to be looked at or a mark to be left.

So when I looked up in the dictionary
I found how mark is synonymous for
1.Stain
that I got on my sweatpant this morning.
2.Bruise
that has covered my neck like a mosaic painting.
3.Scratch
that has been carved on my legs by my own hands.
4.Blemish
that I have thrown on my parent's name and 'identity'.
5.Blot
that has covered my pages and hands because my pen is broken.
6.Scar
that stays on my heart.
7.Label
that I have put on myself and let others call me by it.
8.Identity
that I do not have.

My mother told me to leave my mark wherever I went.
But, wherever I went,
I gained one.