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My Autobiography. My Body
By Billy | January 2, 2010
It’s tougher, it’s darker, it stands up above.
They’re shamefilled neglections of infinite love.
They itch and they scream and they catch every seam
and they live with me
grow with me
ache with me
long with me
like confused distant memories
of probably-dream.
And I can’t say I’m proud, regretful, or pleased
when I look at the remnants of quilt that I’ve teased.
I just sit, maybe sigh, maybe wish back my life.
Or for glue for the pieces that I made with this knife.
-
These marks are a part of me.
These marks are apart of me.
They are not mine.
They are a part of the perfect design.
-
On the other side
of that glass
is a boy
with a mask
and a knife
that he thinks is a toy.
There’s a past and an ache
and some nights spent awake.
And he’s watched you
and loved you
and the choices you make.
In his eyes
you see tired
and frightened
and flame.
In his body
there’s a strength
and an age
and a name.
-
Topics: poetry |
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