When the warmth blossomed from my cheek,
I could almost feel the shift in the future.
Tears stained pink no longer meant happiness,
And the pink stain was no longer metaphoric.
With four arms and two shovels I can dig my way faster.
I can bury those notions up top
And then bury my fears down deep.
Curious gazes are no longer welcomed here.
Attention addicts have long since vacated this lot.
Do you feel proud I walk around with part of you imprinted on me?
I’m sure your handprint gracing my face is some kind of sick barcode
You feel genius to invent.
I never say anything like this aloud,
I am most ashamed to say I cower.
And I whisper in my head,
Next time, I will show you…
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.