Rebellious is a strong word.
I love the sound of it.
There was a drawing on on my
bedroom wall, a girl's
face, with blushed cheeks and
rustic curls and green eyes
My hand was smudged in lead the
night after I finished and it pleased me,
but she was first thing I saw
the minute I stepped into my room
Actually, that's a lie,
her eyes were the first thing I
saw and they interacted with mine
through faded olive glasses, scaring
the living daylight out of me
So I took the picture down,
stripping the wall clean of something
so fictitiously real that my own
brain would want it gone
I've always had
a strange fascination with eyes
because they either pierce like safety pins
or glide by like wedding dresses
along the floor
Yet nowadays I find myself
bombarded by stares, sharpening
as my feet shuffle past
crowded tables and hallways
so quickly they lose their stability
I can't do it.
I can't look at people.
Eyelids become coffins
and each colored iris is the
hand that reaches into
my gaze without warning
They crank intimacy to its
highest potential like bullets
firing in a heated oven,
and my body disintegrates after each
crazed finger touches them
I exist in paralyzed form trying
to pacify an anxious wrath that
shakes my infrastructure
loose, too loose, and joggled
My rib cage snaps free
and a thumping marching band
of heartbeats unlatch from
their positions inside me
I am withdrawn.
So suddenly.
Silent judgment is as
real as little miss green eyes
on my bedroom wall, for it pursues
your entire figure
without remembering that
human identity lies underneath
On the days when this happens,
when the flames creep dangerously
close to my exposed hairs,
I get this rampage of angsty courage telling
me to quit this nonsense and
stand up for myself
So I've created a
mantra: "Walk in with dignity,
walk out with dignity"
Rebellious is a strong word.
I love the sound of it.
