Were you born with a label?
Like a glossy tag tearing the flesh.
It’s stuck and is so pathetically intriguing.
People don’t see see the designer bottle that it covers,
Or all its liquid energy that it is full off?
Am I empty?
Or lost in the surge of faces?
Crimsoned with the same blood?
Or hidden in jumbled tumbling voices?
Or I have a Caution label saying that I am fragile?
Look at me,
You say I look like a twig as if I should be apologetic to be compared to a deep seated tree.
Yes, I am all skin and bones.
But, aren’t you a skeleton too?
Yes , I know the label is graphically pleasing and incontestably arousing.
But I am more.
I am beautifully sensible, and
But why do you only see the structure that holds me,
Why are you so horrified to see my ribcage show, stretching my skin?
Will I always have to prove I am more than the glaring, bold insubstantial covering?
Because, trust me I know,
Appearance is just a glimpse of the unseen.