He tries to navigate me,

He tries to shape me

He tries to tell me what I should be;

If only he knew I held aplomb inside me.

 

The line is drawn

In the center of my forehead,

Where I form my thoughts.

It’s my internal repair shed.

 

It follows down my nose,

Shortly to my lips

Where words of hope have brought him up

And despondency has followed the script.

 

The contour follows the path along my body

Until it lands among my arms

Where memories are forever scarred

Along permanent lines of harm.

 

Centripetal the line becomes

As it reaches the midline

Where I have grabbed so violently

While crying when he left me behind.

 

The line extends to my thighs

The compass now points south.

I wish I had not spent my nights

Praying to God for drouth.

 

He follows the line of the map

And expects to find art.

Instead, he finds a young girl

With a solemn, somber heart.

 

What he cannot see

Beneath the map of allusions

Is her intelligence,

Her beauty, alexithymia , and confusion.

 

The memories, dreams, and ambitions

Are hidden beneath her damaged skin.

Believe me, when you think you’ve seen her

There is more than just a grin.

 

He’s seen her with her clothes off

Traced the inches of her body,

But he hasn’t seen how many lives she’s touched

When she shows that she is somebody.