My

My hair is red and wild, a puff upon pale skin

                         that never fails to catch someone off guard.

 

My blue eyes

            lie and seek truth.

 

My lips deserved to be kissed

                 but are bitten in lonesome frustration.

 

My fingers are slim and feel broken,

            yet so strong while typing.

 

My arms are weak,

              freckled and unsure of finding comfort.

 

My legs have often been unnoticed to me, 

               just moving sticks that glide me through each pace.

 

My toes, long and boney are my roots,

          my centering of Earth and connecting to history.

 

My skin and veins are a map of pain,

             marked and scarred with razor blades.

 

My beauty, is

      my beauty set apart from me.

             
                                          April 26, 2011