So, my body is supposed to be art, right? Regardless of what I look like, regardless of what I wear, it’s supposed to be art which throughout the years, I have created, and should be creating, no? A golden opportunity bestowed upon little old me, an opportunity which should set me free.
Free from being grouped,
free from being cooped,
cooped up in a squared meter space filled with a duplicated face.
Yet, you know,
you,
hold the brush.
You hold the utensil, to stencil,
to stencil,
me.
You inversely instruct me and submissively I agree
And I carry out your wishes, as I yearn for the kisses.
Kisses of admiration, adoration, due to my renovation supposedly fuelled by innovation.
Innovation I retrieve through the indoctrination to glorify
another.
To glorify people who look like
one another.
Now,
what happens when I decide to become
Other?
When I decline and cross the line and no longer have the inbred desire to confine,
To confine to what you’ve sketched and rigorously tried to etch into my brain?
What happens when I take it back? All of it?
What happens when I use
my vision, to precision along with intuition,
intuition I have solely acquired, intuition
I
Use- to be rewired?
It’s then I try to think, try to establish when you were even hired, when I became so uninspired, so tired?
So tired of being me, so tired of being rejected, so tired of constantly being affected and neglected by your scrutiny?
Is it your fault or mine? Was I psychologically forced to confine, or did I feel the unprecedented need to step in line when really, I was fine?
Am Fine.
So, as I sit here, rewired, re-inspired, a little less tired…
You no longer have the upper hand, seated on your grand stand with your every feature on high demand.
So, I sit here,
Rewired
Re-inspired
A little less tired
With you,
Fired.
13/12/17