The Living.

With a body and a soul, I tie my heart
around my wrist, a pair of eyes as clear
as water, my brain on the edge of my lips,
ready to see the art of the living, to be
part of a masterpiece.

I walk with empty fists, cut my hair
and make their lips bleed, I can't hold
myself down, I can't keep their voices
quiet, but the feeling of becoming,
of belonging, does not allow the bitterness
to enter, I'm so far away not even the
cold cruelty of their leather jackets
and busted cigarettes touch my skin.

I can taste the air that surrounds them,
so much regret and shame, their demons tear
at their souls and I just crawl between
them and breathe a thought, some more, the
fight of bones and some poetic growls, they blow
out hope and come back for more, and in spite
of their selfishness, I kind of wanted them to
become whole.

I follow the lines on my skin, tracing
flaws on each molecule and crying out:
yes, that's me! I think I broke the ceiling,
poured my future down the drain, recalling
all the times I've been told to give up, to
stand up, to bite my tongue, to speak up,
to twirl in pretty dresses, to cover up every
inch of my skin - eat your pretty wishes and
burn down your hope.

I can read their bruises, see through their skin:
bring me the silence, darling, I've been praying
far too long, I haven't made any improvement,
my mind's still as rotten, I'm not deserving of
grace, I'm not deserving of another's embrace,
I'll keep waiting on my knees, darling, I think
there's no room for more, not your sadness nor
my time. Pray for me, cry for me, darling, I'm lost
in here.

With new nails I scratch the surface and pause,
there are no new lines to deliver, no new
eyes to entertain, the knots on their strings
shiver and I smile in pain, I feed them dreams
and walk in a straight line, washing down the
emptiness with gasoline. Putting down the colors
across my bed I paint on my body and scrub my tongue
clean, I try not to think I will never make, be,
see the art that makes the living a breathing