my body is not an act of contrition

it’s not a performance I put on to pay penance to those who must look at me;
this is not a transaction,
my effort at some standard of beauty
for your regard

I will not apologize for your attention,
or arrange myself to make your looking at me a pleasant experience

I will not suffocate,
agree to the expense,
or bow to the impracticality of it all;
I will not mold myself to earn your recognition

my body is not an act of contrition



am I irrelevant?

I suppose asking that question
is like pissing in the wind,
when the answer is likely
to be twisted,
pointed back in my direction,
the wall of defense too thick,
when I’m left feeling peripheral,
in focus only when my voice is loud,
the squeaky wheel getting the grease,
a game of manipulation,
one I’m no longer willing to play,
when my thinking of you and hoping you’ll do the same becomes inconsequential,

ash, blowing in the wind

-image via Pinterest, original source unknown


sometimes it happens so quickly –
looking at a person and seeing inside,
pins and needles in a current traveling up your spine and taking residence in each prickle of gooseflesh

in a flash, you see the core of a person,
as fast as the pull and push of a single breath 

there it is,
right there, in the furrow of the brow line, 
taking up the vast blackness of the pupils,
all the pain and disappointment oozing itself out of two lash-lined windows

and just as fast, they close up – 
not even a chisel or a bulldozer could open them again

-image via Tumblr

Not One

I am not one of you
I’m a sieve
A sponge
I adsorb your cue

I am not one of you
I’m a strum
A reciprocal vibration
I hear your hue

I am not one of you
I’m a bubble
A transparent vessel
I see right through

I am not one of you
I’m a translator
A personifier
I feel your askew

I am not one of you
I’m a palate
A canvas
I soak in, imbue

I am not one of you
I’m a double-take
A tip of the tongue
I’m Deja vu

I am not one of you
I’m a moment
A slide show
I’m a tribute

I am not one of you
I’m a quarry

An excavation

I’m a revue

-Image found on Tumblr, source unknown

Paper Mâché

I’ve got a heart of paper maché,
of scraps others leave behind,
of their elephants trying to remain unseen, 
of what’s unspoken, between the lines

I’ve got a heart of paper mache,
of layers upon layers of glue,
of all the smiles and hugs and tears,
of a mold, form fitted to you

-photo found on Flickr