Under Construction

I treated my body like a project

Like I was paper that has been scribbled all over

Like every haircut was a draft

Like every mistake was a typo

Like every line I leave in must be worth the read

I hunched over the mythical instruction manual of broken letters  

I carved at my silhouette

I didn’t notice we are not made out of the same material

I made splinters

Chipping with screwdrivers

I paint over them with a thick cold brush

They cut my fingers every time I work

I just wanted to finish

To be blessed by grades, rankings, the numbers

I hunched over the mythical god of a bathroom scale

I made diagrams without geometry  

I made phenomenons of the glances I caught of tops and corners between their elbows

I made towers with floating middles


But after those towers fell I learned of cement

I learned of the glue of outstretched hands

Not reaching in condolences

But blooming in the direction of my own sunshine

I am learning not to shove my body through a mold

But embrace it as it grows

With my mind as a sun, not a factory

I am learning to make amends with numbers

I am learning to make amends with myself

This poem is about: 


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