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
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
this is all about personality not looks
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
that I got on my sweatpant this morning.
that has covered my neck like a mosaic painting.
that has been carved on my legs by my own hands.
that I have thrown on my parent's name and 'identity'.
that has covered my pages and hands because my pen is broken.
that stays on my heart.
that I have put on myself and let others call me by it.
that I do not have.
My mother told me to leave my mark wherever I went.
But, wherever I went,
I gained one.
do many things.
But I implore you,not to let
another man's blood
stain your hands.
And unleash the wretched in you.
The killing of one human is equivalent to killing all human
Every late night filled with bliss
is etched in red
like lipstick from a stolen kiss
on the white of this bed.
Every single grey smudge shows
a world of lows written in pencil
but still I see those highs
clearly in my murky memory.
Every scar slowly branded into
burnt skin that eventually healed
are tally marks for the demons I slew
and hint at battles that will not yield.
Stained, Smudged and Scarred
A blank and Boring canvas
The ink that always stains,
The poison in my veins,
It's all you.
Micropoetry isn't really my thing, but I have given it a try anyways.
I'm on the underside
of an 80mph tide
& I'm sizzling in the slime
of your olive-oil compromise,
beat the color out of my face
and the bile out of my throat;
I've sang too many songs for you,
so I'll save my breath for
saliva stains on clean pillowcases
2 fingers held up in surrender,
& a nasty place to take a pit stop.