Start from Scratch

I wonder
   who's collecting,
making out.
I'm
 standing, reverent,
 hands held up and offering
 and you're selling down the street.  It's natural as
                                                             the light, but correct me if
                                                                    I'm wrong, but don't actual
                                                                      martyrs die?
  I suppose I failed to
                                                                             tell
you,
how unlike other women I am.  I indulge
but not in sacrifice.
 I'll give freely but won't
               rake in profit.
So, please don't.
 I am tired with none to spare
and the return of
                                       splendor's dimmed.
So, though,
perhaps,
you thought
       this trivial

there's a reality beyond your right and wrong.
         So, we can argue on the tones
           or strands
 but
                that brush you're
                  holding is not a wand. Did
                         I leave a good impression?
                         I'm unfinished, wet,
but that's
 okay.
Throw another coat on before I dry.  I'm thick skinned and structured and I'm tame.
Let
              the bright
 work on me,
                                offset
 where I am dark and withered,
 but don't gut
                                                          my grays.  I know you're
fonder of the breath you've come to know, and I'm sorry
for the wind up,
not to
suit your senses,
but I can't
breathe when it's everyday.  
This
                      is not your way.
 Touch
me.
Feel my skin.  This is
real.
Peel me back, I'm not a replica.  Sit with me a while. Come forth,
                                                                                            forgive me for the wine I
drank in dead of day.
Find me here, circle round, peer into my satin-stained pores.
                                                                                                      The field of flush, the hush of beige,
 design a
concept,
          true.
Mind your manners when you dine with me.  Taste me,
but wipe your mouth when you are done,
stay until I'm finished.
Retouched by a master stroke,
                            still, I'm waiting, under dome of desire and
                                                                 domination of
                                                                 disguise.  I've danced too delicately, consumed,
but now I'm strong and calloused, known by God and self, I'm
              indifferent
                             to your nomination for delegation.
Journeying toward joy, I'm learning freedom and my words,
                                       my truth,
are not a form of subjugation.
 Remove
                                          your interpretation,
 and I'll show you more.

Write at the Merge