Why is it.

Why is it, that when I reach out

    my fingertips skid across the surface of all that I could have

          But the quickness washes down me and I'm pushed away.

Everytime it's a fall, a tantalizing disappointment

    and everytime I hit the ground I just hope I'm fast enough

          To pick myself up and start fighting again.

Why is it, that my body 

     is not considered my own if I dress to a certain style

          My bones are fair game in tainted minds.

Why is it, that it's acceptable

     to address me as an object. I am not an item.

          I am not an its or thats.

Don't tell your friends

     "its hot," when refuring to me

          Don't tell me I'm a "beautiful thing."

Why is it, that it's so hard 

     to look at me and see an equal

          I am not less. I am not incapable.

I am flesh built upon bone

I am color in my cheeks

I am 18 years of experiences

     Dreams & Nightmares 

live scripted on the underside of my skin.

I am favorite words scrolled on the insides of my wrists

I am characters falling out of the corners of mind

       and inking on pages.

Why is it, that I can look at you 

       and think you worthy of respect

But you look at me 

      and think I'm just another.

Another problem, another complaint.

I am not another.

I am one.

One person in front of you.

One life in a million.

     I am a life. 

So why is it, you can't see that?

-D.