I tried to love a girl once,
Blonde and fair–
I was her opposite–
Dark and romantic.
We kissed–only in the dark–so as never to be seen–
Did she believe?
My hair was long then,
I'd wrap it around me like a shawl
until, one day,
I grew tired of it
and decided I'd had enough of being the pretty-beautiful one.
I wanted to be...
My hair is short now,
I walk as people stare
because they'll never understand me,
because they feel easy with the pretty-beautiful ones,
and somehow I challenge them,
I don't quite fit the mold
Why can't they see the pretty-beautiful one is still there,
Waiting to race them to the edge of a bi-sexual cliff?
* * *
She picks up her brush and paints her face,
The soft strokes beginning to give way to a deeper meaning,
a deeper truth.
Still searching for the girl who waits for her in the canvas,
she uncovers the next layer of meaning,
she is her soul's own best archaeologist
and to shock is sometimes in her nature,
There a flower
and here a whisper
of the color of her dawn-saturated hair.
The dawn has made this picture,
as she stands alone,
the painting proof she will live forever.