A piece of clay on the molding board
Constructed by the hands of an artist and teacher
Purpled by inky fingers
I spin in a whirlwind as the wheel rotates
Unsure of myself and my capabilities
Dizzy by the speed with which life circulates past
Carved by the morals of tools, preachings.
Losing my pieces, pulled apart
By the pecking of the hurtful words
They are the knives upon my skin
Carving away the aspects of myself
Peeling away what is not liked
Thrown down and danced upon
Left to be restored by the tenderness
Of those closest to me.
At times my center is hidden
At times, open, displayed for the world
A naked embarrassment of my flaws
We cannot hide everything.
When the whirling slows
The caresses are that of angels
Finalizing their product
But caresses can be sharp
The irony is that similar to a Catholic Bisexual
Where does that derision lie?
But as I am baked
Burned into myself
Branded by the labeling of strangers
The environment changes
And I stay the same
Formed by those around me.