No one likes to know the dark spots.
They want to pretend Whatever it is that allows them the comfortability of small talk is all there is to know.
My bruises are a major source of discomfort for those that think me made of porcelain, And polite smiles.
Maybe it's because they don't want to know that I am actually made of flesh
and that being broken results in blotches of blue ink emerging under my surface,
it's a lot harder to process than a chip or a crack.
Maybe They realize I can't be fixed with plaster, or super glue
or maybe it's because they know I did it to myself.
I wanted to throw my body into those that thought me delicate based on the sun dresses that frequently dawn the thin skin stretched over my smallish bone structure.
I wanted to be throwing punches because I am expected to be executing pirouettes
I thought I could handle the brutality of unpredictable bodies. strangers thrashing too fast and too close to my own, I wanted to prove that I wasn't scared, but all I did confirm that I am fragile.
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