I’ve had enough of you writers– you poets
who try to capture me with beautiful words
that hang loosely around my neck
like a string of stolen pearls, iridescent
and used.

I’ve had enough of you artists– you painters
who imprison me in wood or canvas
my face a teardrop of promise,
my body a soft curve– a map, a mountain,
an atlas.

I would like you to know.

That I was never February flowers laid bare
in varnished antique pottery, nor
summertime breeze dancing between trees
strong, warm to the bone and free.

I would like you to know.

I was never lips meant solely for kissing
or long lashed eyes meant only for dreaming.
I was never just curves made for touching
or fingers made solely for soothing.

I am speeding headlights, unfulfilled dreams
and unsmoked cigarettes stacked neatly
underneath pillows I never slept in.
I am books unread and 3 mugs of tea
in midnights and mornings.

I am muffled curses in traffic,
wrong turns, loose swerves and ghostly
dusty attics. I am emptied coin purses,
rattling bones and wrinkled
book covers.

I am a flurry of tangled sheets in the evenings
I am unmade beds that last til noons.
I am spilled milk on the kitchen linoleum,
I am bright, hot lights in hospital rooms.


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