it is our collective wish to be humble poets.
we are beautiful to some stranger eye.
our lips are full for speaking
the chaos of words we create--we murder pens.
this eye that hears us is biased;
it resides within the body of our collective.
in the hyperlinks highway. click and it sees you.
our purple aquarium light turns us
bright shades of blue, orange and green;
now we match our lullabies.
boys in men's' bodies are heroes and saints.
the jester is lost in the catacombs of
an aging stomach, entertaining unwelcome guests.
our hair is brown, but we call it brunette
in hopes that behind words we sound pretty
to those unknowing. our hair is really black.
we compose through convention. we ruin.
we destroy hearts with sounds and stretch marks
then expect the tank not to overflow.
and though we may never say, we love ourselves
more than we dare. i do not believe you
when you tell me you love me, because no one could
as much as me.
there is no world beyond ours,
with words we compile and retell
in new orders. in new texts, with justifications and line breaks and rhythm
_________________________________& ampersands & octothorpes.
under my purple aquarium light,
i press my face against the glass
hoping to see the big outside,
but only see the reflection
of some ugly little fish and want
to be her.