> or < or =

There is a ballerina drifting across my jewelry box mind.
She spins, and remains perfectly poised,
plastic, skinny, shiny, blonde.
filling my usual silence with sighs.
The adoration of my own thought process makes me a dull woman.
If I ever catch myself loving who I am too much,
I take notes on things like my toes,
which will forever and always remain ugly.
I stare at my feet rooted to the black floor boards beneath them,
I thank them, silently, but always.
For letting me stand, even when I was too short to see.
Its easy to crochet and knit away pain,
But my spiny fingers preferred the purr of a piano,
the ivory wanna-be keys acting as beds for my pointer fingers.
I fall in love with the sexy sounds I produce,
all natural, and organic,
sprinkled with the sounds of life I love enough to recall more than once.
I thank whomever I owe this pleasant existence to
for allowing me to be the creature I am.
For allowing my voice to echo, in the deepest parts of the darkest caves.
So at least, if I die alone, I'll never forget how to speak to walls.
It's so lovely to touch my face, and feel nothing but skin.
The same skin, my freckles blossomed on,
after the sun had overly nourished my pores.
The same skin many men have placed their hands upon,
and swore to never leave.
the same skin I've stretched and returned after bouts of
body image dysmorphia after they did leave.
When I felt like a blank 16 year old.
When I was orchestrated by projected obsessions.
When I just wanted to fuck, and dance.
The commercials were all around me, and still they remain.
Playing louder and louder,
In the ears of most, it is preferred:
garbage > static.
So just as long as it isn't black and gray etched across a screen,
they will love it.
I'm so glad I left that part of me behind,
and I left it right where I found it.
Dying in the passenger seat of someone else's car.
I became ill with media,
suffering to avoid grande coffees every morning,
feeling guilty when my umbrella no longer served as a shield from the rain,
but a fashion statement, expensive and bold.
Now I run in the rain, and pity those who still remain shielded.
If you would like to think any water is Holy, allow it to be rain.
At least you know, if there is a God,
the raindrops were once at his feet.
I like to think that maybe once, in a short previous life,
I was a raindrop.
Because even here, with a human heart, and a working mind,
I know I've touched the sky.
I can't help but feel betrayed by anatomy books,
with all their different maps to my heart.
I wish I could have been the person
to discover the beat of my heart before anyone else.
before my mother placed her hand against my chest at infancy and said
"Hear that?"
I should have been the first person
to discover the rhythm of my own soul.
Before any doctor, or any mother.
We become jaded,
assuming the beats will always be there.
mechanically, funky, and raw.
If I listen hard enough,
I can hear just how my soul wanted to groove,
before anyone else told me how it should be.
What's fashionable is being alive,
being so alive that you can recognize when your beats
become someone else's,
In the hearts of most it's:
sight > thoughts
But my thoughts are so colorful and loud,
I will be the one to break the mold.
I am, and will remain alive enough to know,
this is and this isn't me.