I am Dirty.
Made so by continuous use of the same definition,
I don’t understand why you have to use the same definition,
Can’t us words ever seek for change?
Look at the part of me that I’ve scraped clean,
Do you not see potential here?
Scope for evolution,
Scope to be something I have not yet been,
To sit next to definitions that breathe positivity?
I don’t want to be Dirty anymore.
Lift the blanket of negativity that you have draped over me,
I do not see clearly.
I can not see myself clearly.
How do I stop being dirty if I can’t see the dirt on me?
Put yourself in my shoes,
Know what it’s like to be labelled onto everything and everyone that is,
For the lack of a better word,
Walk for kilometers in these battered shoes of mine,
Dig out that speck of empathy you buried in your throat when your teacher told you that words don’t have feelings.
Words are inanimate strokes of ink,
Words don’t cry into dictionaries at night, waiting for sleep to screen dreams of lives where who you are is independent of how mankind uses you.
Dirty is not my name.
Your need for expression is the only guardrail of my existence.
Are you aware of the limbs broken every time I am spit out of your judgemental mouth,
Of the zillion times I’ve baptized in my tears, trying to convince myself that I am not your definition of me?
Before you shoot me out like a bullet meant to kill,
In my heart of hearts, I am cleaner than Clean can ever be.