My Identity
my dad loves to remind me that people dye
their hair different colors because they are asking for attention.
because i want purple hair, i apparently
possess no other positive qualities.
clearly, my straight-A-student, active-participant-in-every-club, best friend has pink hair
because she has no other defining traits.
he says the same thing about makeup:
the lipstick i chose or the smokey eye that i’m donning
are all simply to attract attention.
to me, make-up is an art form, it’s an outlet of expression.
my hair color attracts attention, but not necessarily the attention of others;
my hair color attracts the attention of the part of me crying
to be this other person.
the purple lipstick i wear is the part of me buried deep shouting
that this is who i am.
it’s the part of me that isn’t afraid of taking risks,
that often gets overshadowed by the rest
of me cowering in the corner.
i wear the makeup i do because i’m paying attention.
i’m listening to the artist in me who is dying to be heard because she is
getting ignored for failing grades in math classes.
i’m listening to the person i wish i was who is confident but is
killed by my constant self-hate.
my hair color is bold and is
telling me that in the most trivial of times
i do have courage.
i think that people dye their hair because they are paying attention,
not asking for it.
my dad helps me remember that until i am good
in math, i have no other worthy traits.
that until i have mastered matrices and ellipses,
i don’t deserve anyone’s attention.
no wonder i wear navy lipstick.
my dad reminds me that my knowledge
of hyperbolas and parametrics
is more important than my knowledge
of hyperboles and parataxis.
why bother writing poems when you can write equations?
solve for x, don’t think about syntax.
to my father,
my writing is like coloring my hair;
it is an angsty teenager asking for attention.
that instead i should leave my hair natural,
throw out my makeup,
and only pick up my pencil when I am ready to calculate.
but to me,
my writing is my art, like coloring my lips;
poetry provides a place for me to play with punctuation,
and allows me to oscillate my opinion.
writing words until my wrist won’t rotate -
giving me a ground to rest my grievances -
the paper is where my thoughts can be mine.
i fear that others will reject who i am and so
i conform.
but with paper and pen the only confirmation i need is
from the ink.
i write because there is no right answer,
to the story,
but also to life; and so i write,
to satisfy my soul searching for the solution to who
i want to be.
i want to be someone who satisfies others,
but first i must satisfy myself,
so i dye my hair green and wear red lipstick
and look like a walking, talking christmas tree,
allowing others to be as atent to me as they choose,
because fuck you, father
for making me forget that fallacies are more fascinating than functions
and that my identity is more important than trig’s.
their hair different colors because they are asking for attention.
because i want purple hair, i apparently
possess no other positive qualities.
clearly, my straight-A-student, active-participant-in-every-club, best friend has pink hair
because she has no other defining traits.
he says the same thing about makeup:
the lipstick i chose or the smokey eye that i’m donning
are all simply to attract attention.
to me, make-up is an art form, it’s an outlet of expression.
my hair color attracts attention, but not necessarily the attention of others;
my hair color attracts the attention of the part of me crying
to be this other person.
the purple lipstick i wear is the part of me buried deep shouting
that this is who i am.
it’s the part of me that isn’t afraid of taking risks,
that often gets overshadowed by the rest
of me cowering in the corner.
i wear the makeup i do because i’m paying attention.
i’m listening to the artist in me who is dying to be heard because she is
getting ignored for failing grades in math classes.
i’m listening to the person i wish i was who is confident but is
killed by my constant self-hate.
my hair color is bold and is
telling me that in the most trivial of times
i do have courage.
i think that people dye their hair because they are paying attention,
not asking for it.
my dad helps me remember that until i am good
in math, i have no other worthy traits.
that until i have mastered matrices and ellipses,
i don’t deserve anyone’s attention.
no wonder i wear navy lipstick.
my dad reminds me that my knowledge
of hyperbolas and parametrics
is more important than my knowledge
of hyperboles and parataxis.
why bother writing poems when you can write equations?
solve for x, don’t think about syntax.
to my father,
my writing is like coloring my hair;
it is an angsty teenager asking for attention.
that instead i should leave my hair natural,
throw out my makeup,
and only pick up my pencil when I am ready to calculate.
but to me,
my writing is my art, like coloring my lips;
poetry provides a place for me to play with punctuation,
and allows me to oscillate my opinion.
writing words until my wrist won’t rotate -
giving me a ground to rest my grievances -
the paper is where my thoughts can be mine.
i fear that others will reject who i am and so
i conform.
but with paper and pen the only confirmation i need is
from the ink.
i write because there is no right answer,
to the story,
but also to life; and so i write,
to satisfy my soul searching for the solution to who
i want to be.
i want to be someone who satisfies others,
but first i must satisfy myself,
so i dye my hair green and wear red lipstick
and look like a walking, talking christmas tree,
allowing others to be as atent to me as they choose,
because fuck you, father
for making me forget that fallacies are more fascinating than functions
and that my identity is more important than trig’s.