“He’s Venus as a boy,”
Björk, I can’t help but agree. Just look at you.
Kiss me to this song; make it our song,
paint it green and pink and yellow and blue.
Your hands are soft as a whisper shouted
across the room: Why can’t you hear me?
I always thought I was too loud, too much,
but am I not enough? Are my hands too small
to hold your world? What if your hands
grow weary of holding me up? Don’t
let me fall. I’m scared of heights.
“He believes in a beauty.”
Björk, I can’t help but agree, and my heart aches
when he looks at her, not me. She’s just enough.
I don’t think I’m right. I don’t think he can see
the words I’m shouting: Why don’t you see me?
I’m invisible, and that makes me invincible,
but I want to hurt. I want to feel
life and know I’m living; I want
to make memories. Don’t
let me forget. I’m scared of having nothing.
“He’s Venus, a Venus as a boy.”
Björk, I can’t help but agree, and do you think
I’ll ever compare? I don’t know if I’ll
meet my match; they’re all Venuses, they’re
all right, the right amount. It’s The Birth of Venus,
not The Birth of Me. Crescent shells
and frothy seafoam, not holding on
to the past. I’ll stand steadfast, but
everyone moves around—I’m too
static. They never see: Will you dance with me?
I’m not welcoming. Don’t look into
my eyes; I’m not mad. Don’t
let me frighten you. I’m scared of being alone.
