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the art you are

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why do eyes surveillance the tangible material hugging my body just because it was purchased in the men's section?
and why is it wrong if I cut my hair like a man’s?
and why is it even labeled as a “men's haircut” when you or I can wear it just as well?
why is it empathetic and sentimental to hear a man has depression, but if I begin to talk about my own I am seeking attention from the lack of care I receive from myself?
why is it insipid to feel the same emotions, but the only difference between you and me are the sockets holding the eyes that place me lower than your ego plant being watered by your own spigot.
i will not apologize for my seeds wanting to thrive in other fields.
why do you call me ugly barefaced, but cake faced when I pour liquid over the pores your shallow heart ritually dives into?
if my boobs are not big enough to reach your satisfaction, and my butt is not good enough to receive cat calls i did not ask for, again, i will not apologize to you for being human.
why is it okay to have a man come up behind me to take and touch parts of my body, the parts my mother always told me i owned?
last time i checked i was not an item on a shelf waiting to be checked out and returned expected to be in one piece. 
since when was my unspoken consent a synonym for the word okay?
since when did no mean yes and yes mean no because no one wrote those words down, except the bodies that you trace to make music out of with black keys?
since when is it okay for you to be honored and awarded with the satisfaction of being manly when you get laid, but for me i am called a s**t while being looked down upon?
stop forgetting that
i am art.
i am not just wisps of yellow paint created on my soul and the paper mache i have used to craft my glass heart back to its past home.
i have built myself.
now, i will begin to apologize for only blaming men for appalling action when women are just as capable of doing the same right back.
i need to stop forgetting that
you are art too.






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