i want to rub it in your faces

like paint on the hands of a four year old in preschool.
you might not like the way my bones are growing larger
than the skin trying to contain them

but i don't listen to matriarchs;
my eyes are only open to the meaningless logic
of those that logically logicize that logic is legitimate.
it's my nescience to your tumultuous cries of mourning and concern
that lets me continue with my self inflicted wear and tear.

my eyes were scratched with the grains of life
and a bleeding heart that never clots in cold weather
is covered in its blood, reproachful of the world.

i've seen nothing more than you have.
but i'm less brave
in that i can not ignore and accept.

and being aware means only that i am conscious
that i could be all which i'm afraid of being.