Poem from November

I want to be beautiful 

Not in the eyes of society, but in the eyes of an artist, 

I want them to imagine the clay-laden hands that formed my curves and the scalpel that made the delicate lines between my brow

I want the painter to visualize the exact shades of red that were used on my fine hair and how my freckles are so wonderfully flicked across my skin

I want the musician to notice the lines of music that crisscross my arms and sweet song inside my mouth

Society can stare all they want, but I am beautiful in the eyes of artists.

I have many little things about me,

I don’t own them, they are parts of me

I have scars on the sides of my thumbs from peeling off hangnails since I was young

I have 3 tiny freckles on my left hand that form a near perfect equilateral triangle 

I have large areas of my right arm that are covered in scar tissue from the time mushrooms claimed me as their own 

The rare curvature of my hands passed down from father to son for generations exist in me

My knees are scraped constantly from lost memories of climbing, and falling, off trees 

These are parts of me I must admit to, as Mother Nature has kissed me gently on my brow 

I want to be poetic 

I want to talk in rymes and stanzas 

I want to quote famous lines, Sappho, Shakespeare, it goes on

I try, I really do

But when i open my mouth all that comes out are croaks and whispers of things I wish to say

I have no voice, so in a sense, I write.