The outcast

I have often been told that,
I am a temple for bad guys
and sandpaper hands,
because I let them writhe their
filthy fingers on my void body.

I have often been told that
I scribble that graphite too much
and too blunt
for they make men feel a less of a men,
and me, a more of a women.

I have often been told my mouth is
full of bad poetries and ethnic slurs
for I step over religion every day
questioning the existence of that omnipotence.

I have often been told that I am the epitome of
wrecked hearts for I love too much and too hard.

I have often been told that
I am an egocentric bitch,
cause I unleashed the secrets of men
who ran their glib tounges all over me,
and the sentences I create to tell my history
could easily form the eulogy for me.

What I have never been told is that
I am allowed to mourn the loss of me,
or how my forged words and unconventional
beauty has made them fall for art and poetry,
how the one who have breathed on the nape
of my neck have rolled their tounges to say
unintended I love you’s to forever lock a part of
me,
how, every person I met took the essence of me
and now I am nothing but the extraction of every
person’s soul and bodies.