V. H. King's Ink

it shouldn’t split me open like 
this. if you tell them i have thin 
skin, no one will believe you—even
though they're the first to say i feel 

deeply. i can eviscerate with the right
line break and perfectly spilled paint
and they'll praise me for it, preferring 
not to think about what it takes: 

because I've always been bleeding 
behind the scenes. the right voice
is just one of many: a muse in every 
haunted scream and hunted harmony.

i pull shards of glass from between
my teeth, shreds of thorned grass 
barbing through vein and bone. i was
groomed into conducting myself

through a symphony of suffering;
they still only clap for me if 
i am dancing, when i am dying—
but do it slowly, they say, and make

sure to smile. grace us with your 
resilience but don't make too much 
of a mess, please. don't tell the truth 
too loud, don't point your gaze at me.