by Diana Cosma
It’s not that you are broken.
Like living in a torn egg,
you have grown
ready to hatch
and that your light
is no longer a holy shade of white
only means you can learn
the beauty of kaleidoscopes.
This was never the issue;
it’s just that you called yourself ugly
before mirrors were invented
and you have refused to breathe
outside the pages of your head
You are the lion who has chosen to be eaten alive
by snobs whose taste buds are only sensitive to pain
and between the saliva rain and the earthquake of teeth
you take pride in your last words -
"look how disgraceful they’ve painted me!
If dawn has to break, why would the newborn day
matter at all?"
and I'm not sure I want to be there
when you stab yourself with a piece of night
and refuse to open your eyes
Last updated September 25, 2011