I will not scrub my chapped skin with ivory.
You never know the new colors you will lay in that will
dry and dye and live in your skin.
When I walk through this desert and gleam
down these endless streets looking wondering where I will rest,
I lose control.
If my nails can be scraped down to jewels
just to return to claws why not accept
that my hands are tools made for digging and cutting and protecting myself in this jungle?
If my once handsome boyish face is pushing hair
from the inside threw theses tiny holes why not accept I am a wolf?
Mother are you weeping?
Your little boy is now a cub with knots in his skin.
I will lay down in the road and scrape at your heels.
Mother I now know hunger
and I can no longer tell your ankles from the others running in the herd.
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