//don’t ask me about my art, it’s art for a reason//

Some days,
it’s a pebble in my shoe.

Some days,
it erupts
and I can’t even change my socks
because my toes and veins feel like
attempting to eat away my body like
a corpse
of a life not mine.

Some days
are better than others,
but most are worse.

Some days I feel
brave enough to sweat voluntarily,
my eyes automatically finding
a reflective surface to thrust needles to
whatever is vacantly staring back.
Some days I go out and plaster my overgrown
hair to my forehead, divide it in two and blame
it on the sweat
and practicality.
Feign apathy when I go out for a run,
when in reality,
this happy little accident
of splitting my hair in two
is all I have.
Along with the happy little accident
of the shopkeeper last year,
“mistakenly” calling me “she”,
the taxi driver last month,
calling me “her”,

And trust me,
everyday I see
the green in me
and try to dry it into white,
only because blank is easier
to turn to blue sometime soon.

And I’m begging for white,
all my shirts read MAN at the tag
which scratches at my neck only
to find me alone in a corner somewhere
and hammer me,
my shoulder blades dig into skin that I swear
feels as unfamiliar as
the face of every single person
who has stared at me this week,
grabbed me by the arm this week;
skin that is
as unfamiliar as the face which once belonged
to my best friend,
as unfamiliar as his remarks on
my body, my identity;
skin as unfamiliar as the sound of my own name.

I have nothing.

Except a few people who love me for being blank.


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