if you try to cut me with your cookie-cutter expectations i will stick to the table in resistance
i will get your hands covered in dough that never seems to fully come out from under your nails
and i will weave into every crevice of your table
before i let myself be simply what you want me to
–
am i appealing to your gaze wrong?
are the things i choose to do to ornament my body not what you wanted?
are the things i find passion in not what they should be?
am i marching to my entrapment in society to the wrong music?
–
you may answer but i will not listen
you may degrade me, tear me down, try to change me but
i
will
not
listen
–
is it uncomfortable when i break the structure you expect?
good.
i’ll do it till i’m sick, because i’d rather be sick than the projection of your expectations
–
maybe i’m not fitting neatly into the box you expect me to
but if i ever am, if i ever am even partially defined by the bounds you give me
i will break out of it
because it won’t be me who complacently folds to your will
not me