My body is not
What I was born with
We are what I have made of us
Violet burns, indigo bruises, blue ink, And green scars that shimmer.
Still though,
We are yellow like we think the sun is, like the dandelions We know are going to leave behind their orange ballet in puffs and breezes, We are ripe fruits, red lips, and candy hearts, and oxygenated blood. Like life.
About the Creator
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Open Your Mouth
Listen, hold your hand to your chest, feel the constant comforting vibration rising up from your lungs to the hollow in the back of your throat where you burrow under soft, slick tissue and bury yourself in the cacophony of your body. This is not a place, it is a song without words but you know the words and you hum the melody and rise a fifth for harmony and when you stop singing it stays in your head, notes multiplying, mutating. Your mouth is silent, your tongue is still, but deep in the hollow of your throat the notes burn bright and hot, each sound sealing itself in a chrysalis and emerging higher and lower, staccato, lagatto, still easily slipping into the warm comfort of the chords streaming around you like a many colored coat. You are not born there, you do not build it, you cannot find it. You must listen and follow. You must open your mouth.
By Michelle Orabona4 years ago in Poets
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