Seeing my own face, not looking like any other

I condemn when they put a chunk of

my aunt, father, cousin

altogether. Presto: me.

I condemn, but I have done it ... so often.

No, no this human is solely me.

I throw glass, chase conform,

and writing is vital.

I even wake my insomniac mother

to HAND ME MY PENS.

One more flies over

if I don't have my pens.

I write and rip paper

and scream. Then write some more

because

because I AM.

I want to throw my sobbing body

into her arms -

"Tell me! Tell me I am an artist!"

Somebody tell me I have some worth,

that my pen strokes are not for nothing.



I think the next time I look into a mirror

I might slam a bat into it.

After every last shard sinks

to the white tile floor (with specks of my black hair everywhere)

I will turn on my heel, slam the door,

and walk into the shock-faced living room.

"Yes," I will say with a grin.

"I have my own eyes. Which of you

did give me these hollow cheekbones?"