Building with blocks made of quiet desperation,
I built a tower, aching for attention.
Embracing each cold bit of concrete,
accepting praise and ridicule with conceit.
The girls, with their big hoop earrings,
and their tidy handwriting,
and their venomous words,
and how their fingers reach for you,
leaving purple-tinted bruises.
Bruises, I've poked when alone,
to feel the ash settle in my bones.
Someone was here scrawled on my skin,
and I feel visible again.
The boys, with fledgling game,
and promised something more,
and counting every
popcorn drip ripple
hanging from the ceiling.
Bored, I lay there as he panted,
the quiet unsettled disenchanted,
I needed it to be more than his grunt and sweat,
he needed nothing more than warm and wet.
Decisions I've made built altars and steeples,
I've sewn myself together with dulled needles.
Batting made up of chopped up childhood memories
Made up of being what's between two knees,
but never what's nestled between two breasts.
I am twin images, in mirror and mortar,
using touch and spite for my spire.
I crushed myself into a thickened paste,
and spread between stones explicitly placed.
When at last, my tower was scaled,
I found myself staunched and paled,
The white dress draped and clashed,
with my stitches and memories of past.
The discordant notes, of cellulite and scars,
reminded me of weres and ares.
His acception and embrace,
can never rewrite, never erase,
the song my body plucks and chimes.
But, instead I find,
His soul and mine,