Don't Embalm Me. I'm Not Dead.


You wonder why I wear a mask,

Yet you scream when you see what's beneath.

I've learned to conceal my true face,

So I can have some kind of relief


From the bone-crushing stares 

And the razor-blade words.


Why is that so absurd?


I always say I don't care.

It doesn't matter what you think.

But on the inside I'm bailing out 

Water as I try hard not to sink.


I'm choking on expectations

Of who I'm supposed to become.

Why isn't it enough

just to be someone?


I should be used to it by now,

It's always the same.

You carve your impression of me

Into my name.


Each syllable that used to be

So scrumptious and sweet,

Now drips with assumptions

I don't dare to eat.


To escape I don heels making

Monuments of my soles,

Hoping the extra height will help me

Take back what you stole.


You've captured my whole person,

It's now immured in your palm.

"Don't worry," you say,

"I know how to embalm!"


Then you take my true self

And you sweeten it up,

So sickeningly sweet

I think I might throw up.


Until I am not me,

I'm no longer myself,

Just a wig-wearing mannequin,

Gathering dust on a shelf.

Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 


Taya Evans

That's is a very deep insprational poem


Thank you very much!

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