They've written "pink" in permanent ink 
on everything I own: 
my body's curves, my voice's verve - 
they scratched it into stone. 
The word is there on everything 
I have and have not known - 
the dirt I've grown in, books I wrote in, 
things I've said and groaned; 
yes, broken down, it follows me 
and swallows me - it pounds 
around my frame in one big name 
I'll grind into the ground 
(when I'm eighteen, and finally free 
to kill that awful sound). 

They've etched in stone those nasty tones 
that shout too loud and often, 
but I've release in fingering 
the chisel in my pocket - 
in calming down my insides by assuring them that rock 
cannot name them, 
will not claim them; 
they don't aim to shock - 
they're all but electricity. 
I do not want to lie 
beneath a stone, god-awful throne 
with this name to the sky. 

No, let the heavens see my face 
and call it what it is! - 
let falsities not nomer me; 
let truth stain all my skin! 
I know myself - I know me well - 
and knowing, on its own, 
 is all I need - 
that's why I bleed - 
for rowan boughs unshown. 

And while the world is bored by peace, 
I'm shifting in this skin 
to find my favorite parts of me 
and free them to the wind - 
I want to bear them on my breast; 
I do not want to die 
and know my grave will wear this name: 
a stony, chiseled lie.