This poem is part of a series titled identity.
The first piece in the series is ‘Strip.’
The second piece is ‘Strut(Walks).’
The third piece is ‘Jazz Hands.’
This the fourth and final piece.
I hope one day to hold a rose and kiss it,
to kiss the thorns on its stem and cut my lips- blood
I wear roses on my body-
I wear roses to hide my insolent hips from swaying too wide;
I adorn my long, droopy arms with sunflowers and yellow
if my blood isn’t warm enough at least its flowers are;
My back is laced with lilies and jasmine-
its scent masks the trace of fear that blows
like a wanton wind;
My chest is the mantle to the tulips that rise into my throat,
stifling thought, stifling expression,
isn’t it beautiful to look at?
I wear pink on most days, brightness attracts attention– is that what I crave?
The world is looking for something to make blue every day– is that what I’m asking for?
Well I’m no florist but my body can grow pretty things quite well.