limbic heartbeats resonating with more than we were

pointed fingers,
they whisper,
"she did it"

i do not cringe at the pronoun,
too used to abused genders and misnamed identities for that. 
i would not let something as simple as a flinch
out me, rip away my facade and shove me with angry, sharp fingers
into a crowd of waiting personalities that are all composed of mouths and sharp teeth,
nothing more.

i am shattered pieces, 
if they saw my cracks they would say 
"let us help you, let us replace you with a new one, unbroken and perfect"

but i am gluing myself together,
i am almost done - 
shards pressed into tiny slivered gaps, 
chipped paint covered with white-out

you would only take away my struggle,
erase it and 
claim that a good deed done

yet i am not your charity project, 
not your look-who-helped-today bragging rights to your mother

do not make me as such, 
my glue is working (so far)

so do not throw a blanket over my words
and shove the description "helpless" into my mouth
like dry bread i am forced to swallow,
like a chasm gaping open and eating me whole

my hands run through thick wool,
sheep butting against my knees,
i am standing in your dreams of a white-picket-fence existence,
replacing painted wooden stakes with 
bright red barns and pretty antiquated farmhouses
the way i shy away is nearly as old as your picturesque picturings 

crooked fingers,
they ask me how i wore through my fingerpads,
i do not tell them i do not trust
anything i cannot touch

like a starving blind mouse,
i feel my way to anything of sustenance,
run deaf hands over his/her arms, 
trying to see if their 
vision is the same as mine

but i have yet to meet 
anyone who looks at the world 
with the same shade of gray

my sister hides notebooks
of messy, heart-tainted, line-looping,
poetry that shivers with the forbearance 
of a hidden world

like a ghost, 
past phrases
and twists of tongue
haunt my joints,
"crickets sing of love in the deep blue sea" creaks in my knees,
"you said that I could make beauty out of nothing" rasps from my ankles,
"and we're looking at some long-dead light" whispers out the edges of my jaw,
"leave silence to its own devices" coughs from my hips.

like an overused metaphor,
my heart is set to rest - 
a broken bed is a bed nevertheless,
beaches spanned with rocks,
candles that burn like your eyes in the reflection of 
dragonfire from the books you read

like a creature from some forgotten mythology,
mystical and dying out from a rare strain of some vein-coloring virus
like a curse of an ugly duckling doomed to forever pencil her eyebrows in

time heals no wounds,
clocks are not bandages
but nice words and a kind smile are something akin to 
getting a compliment on my dress
from a stranger on the street

but just because they do not know you
does not mean that you do not know you.

let your tears be rivers, 
your anguish can carry you away
if you just let it

the language of the skies 
bows to no mortal
but transcend what they say you are,
and damn if you can't see the clouds for what they are

so to those who saw me
and pointed with their too-manicured fingernails,
go and point at the wall -

you'll probably get a better reaction. 

The End

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