Calligraphy. Poem. Martin Collins

 

In another life I was mute,

written words were my voice.

So I lay awake

sculpting them

into a script 

that could stain your mind.

I inked my history across my body

presenting myself as artefact

and all the stares, scorn

and petty human hatred

did not feel like trauma any more,

they felt like value.

 

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