My Line is Mixed

There are layers

you slide by,

when you are your own

reference point.

But I am not on your map.

still you try to read me.

It is a weight you will never feel

and continue to press on my back.

So don’t ask me why my shoulders

medially rotate, caving in my

heart.

So don’t tell me to lift my chest,

lift my chin and

stop using you as a reference.

I’ve lived my entire life by your storyline,

the one you write on my skin, of my name, about my hair

and voice, and concerning the biology of my heart.

Your line is one thread leading you back home.

My line is a multitude, a war, a vast

intersection.

I stand in the middle of myself

and still you do not see who I am.