Make me cry.

An infant born anonymous
A spirit wandering in its bounds
I have nothing to inspire me anymore. Maybe I do.

But I've given up so much in offerings of my own shares. And I have no experiences that hold me together anymore. Nothing hurts.
Does it hurt for you? What hurts you? I don't actually want to know. It won't be my story anyway.

I'm not bored, just empty.
Like a bad egg.
Or a bosom unused.

I have cried out so much already. And I have remembered so much more. Right now, there's only a hope of questions and a larger quest for hope. I want to be wild again. Wild and inspired and mad. I've been tamed somehow - and made so cold and dead, I can't even cry for my own death.

Rape provoked me. It hurt me. It made me want to cry and cry and cry and tell someone. It made me want to be bigger than a sex object.

Society provoked me. It caged me. It made me want to fight and fight and fight and tell someone. It made me accept myself.

On a stoney sky of silences I stand, honestly, without any reason, I stand looking for that reason. That reason which can make my existence human. Privilege is a terrible terrible burden. Art roots in the street. Not in stoney unchanging skies. Art roots deep in the darkest part of your heart, and deep in the smallest part of the dirtiest gutter. Art is never grand without getting messy.

Art is a reason to live? Or is reproduction? Or is companionship. Perhaps, I wish for none of this. Only for a reason.

Painted teardrops leave my eye.