They've written "pink" in permanent ink
on everything I own:
my body's curves, my voice's verve -
they scratched it into stone.
The word is there on everything
I have and have not known -
the dirt I've grown in, books I wrote in,
things I've said and groaned;
yes, broken down, it follows me
and swallows me - it pounds
around my frame in one big name
I'll grind into the ground
(when I'm eighteen, and finally free
to kill that awful sound).
They've etched in stone those nasty tones
that shout too loud and often,
but I've release in fingering
the chisel in my pocket -
in calming down my insides by assuring them that rock
cannot name them,
will not claim them;
they don't aim to shock -
they're all but electricity.
I do not want to lie
beneath a stone, god-awful throne
with this name to the sky.
No, let the heavens see my face
and call it what it is! -
let falsities not nomer me;
let truth stain all my skin!
I know myself - I know me well -
and knowing, on its own,
is all I need -
that's why I bleed -
for rowan boughs unshown.
And while the world is bored by peace,
I'm shifting in this skin
to find my favorite parts of me
and free them to the wind -
I want to bear them on my breast;
I do not want to die
and know my grave will wear this name:
a stony, chiseled lie.