skin and flesh are imperfect vessels for the maelstrom at the centre

at random 

bouts of anger burst forth 

tears, anxiety

yet the spinning won’t slow

barely contained by physical reality 

I bounce like Tigger just not as cute 

nothing is cute about me

not even the pink nail polish

so all that remains is to shout in bright colours and poetic forms

lest you fear the wounded child grown

into a woman with tallons as sharp as her pen and poignat as herself-loathing

fear not the artist but the art

for it can destroy silences