Ruined Art

I'm an artist, but not in the literal sense. The best I can do is draw a little stick figure

while I indicate that we are all the same in the end, anyway, but that is not what my best art is.

My best art is the masterpiece I've painted on my body. My body is a myriad of colors,

covered from head to my toes, didn't you notice how they swirl and blend together to make up the person you know?

 

Wait you can't see the colors? You can't see any of them? You can't see the white paint that covers my

face as I try to blend with my classmates who tell me that I'm nothing like my actual race? Come on,

look a little closer, see those white flecks that cover my mole as somehow everyone believes

it's exactly identical to Marilyn Monroe's?

 

And you don't see the gold that covers my hands, wishing that I had the Midas touch

because success and money seems so much easier to clutch

when your parents' money can buy you everything

while I stand here trying to reach for anything.

 

Enough stalling though, because what you really can't see are the colors I've hidden underneath

thousands of other ones. You don't see the stains of blue that streak my arms in trails like tears...and you

don't see the black noose that encircles my neck as a reminder that I stared Death straight in the eyes and

decided to say, "kiss my rear". And you don't see the red hand prints that I've tried to scrape off with

raw, broken fingernails; the streaks that are seared onto my thighs and my shoulders.

 

Because he was a stronger painter than I was. And he was so much older.

 

See, I've painted these colors over my body, so I can't forget. And the ones with the heaviest of

burdens, I've coated on with lead paint - their toxic fumes burn my nose as reminders that I can't ever

escape this unpleasant yet beautiful work of art that is my body, that I've been known to love

and becauuse of you, learned also to hate.

 

To be honest, I acted angry that y'all didn't see these freaking colors all over my skin, but it's my fault

because I didn't want you to,

I am the artist after all.

I took my yellow sunshine colored paint and I layered

and layered and layered it on until everything looked just like a masterpiece and nothing looked

wrong.

 

I am a stronger artist now, and I understand that love is nothing like this, so tell me the truth,

if I hold a glass of water over my head, should I dump it on me,

wash away the colors that cover up all my impurities, and start all over again? 

This poem is about: 
Me
Our world

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