More Ryhme des mots

My Body is a Good Place to be...

I walk from the car to my front door.
Running the image of people I chose to speak to for whatever reason, thinking of the words I deliberately put out into their mind with my own, looking up at the building before me that I choose to be my home.
I walk up the stairs, left foot in front of my right, because I once read that walking this way will sharpen your mind.
I hold the whetstone.
I enter the room I've made my own, with a ladder I bought and a paintbrush I stole,
The lights on the wall that I put there to light my own abode.
I take off my jacket, my socks. I look into the mirror, my makeup slides off.
I spin out of the fabric that keeps me contained until nothing but my blotchy red skin of a person remains.
I reach for my shoulder to pull off the acne
It will not move.
I rub at the scars on my hips from growing involuntarily.
I scratch at the ones that I made for my own.
Arms, sides, thighs, a throne made up of tiny purple lies that I told, thinking of myself as just a chalkboard. Ready to be erased, at my bidding to do as I please.

I can mold these abs into what I want.
I can tattoo my arms to say what they want.
I can move these eyes to see, open my pierced ears to hear and choose whether or not to believe,
But even I may not tell my heart at will to stop its beat
Even if in some drunken night of empty bottles of self pity, if I or any body else tries;
It cannot be done if the creator of this body does not comply.

I can tear my unwanted hair out, but it is still brown.

I can change my nails to be red, but they will always look sexiest planting something living in the ground.

My body can be tuned to any station I please, but the radio of reality will continue to blare at me.

My body is a good place to be
because in a world of bad choices
this one wasn't made by me
I don't hold onto the responsibility of having built these eyes to look this way, but I do build the rooms in them to hold what they say
Out to other people choosing
To look towards me.