Self- Portrait as a White Borad

Yet my flesh might seem clean, I am tattooed with the labels of society.
 
Every morning her flesh starts clean,
but by the afternoon she is tattooed with ideas.
In between the different fonts, 
no one could tell of her original beauty.
 
She stands still, not a movement or sound to 
come from her.
Only the dancing colors on her skin.
The marks were never meant to stay forever,
but a few found themselves embedded in her epidermis 
for always.
 
But those were the ones she cherished the most, 
she knew those were the ones people would look at 
and ask
“who wrote that?”
 
Even at times doodles found themselves adding excitement to her complexion-- 
but she didn’t care.
She didn’t care if the doodles were there,
because they were the simplest forms of art to all,
yet they were complex to her
staining her exterior.
 
Her exterior
faded,
scarred,
and discolored
with different hues of coloration,
changing fonts,
and exotic authors
painting her with their unrepeatable ideas.
 
She allowed herself to be a canvas.
She knew,
she knew that they would be decolorized at the end of the 
day.
Making her skin more bleached,
but the ideas still stayed,
just tainting her
making it hard to catch 
sight of her 
original beauty.
 
So she just waits,
waiting in silence
knowing it would all be washed away,
 
But the memory of it all could never be erased,
so she sleeps with pleasure in her 
heart. 
 
Waiting for the next day. 
Waiting for the next author to make their claim.
 
This poem is about: 
Me

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