Self-Portrait

To color me, you need to rub cigarette ash into pink. Because I’m gritty, a little dirty, and too young and too old to worry about a smooth complexion. You need broad strokes to catch the way I use my arms when I talk. And how I talk, blue on a pallet knife, sumptuous with extra on the edges.

For my hair, stick on some grass. It was always on my head as a child and someday will grow over me, my new hair. But don’t use that ecosystem ruining Kentucky grass bullshit. Use switchgrass, the heads of big and little bluestem, ghostly buffalo grass.

Then carefully, place a mirror where my body is. Point me at the sky so the clouds swim across my midriff. And people can look at my body head on; maybe they’ll finally see how they project themselves onto me. But most importantly I want them to see their reflection under my glare, two knives hung over an apple. The apple of truth and of knowing oneself.

Take a bite off my arm and chew the dirt. Watch yourself devour me, finally see I’ve been treated like fodder for fires against me my whole life. Fires by and for you, and you, and you.

I am not smiling. How can I when I reflect the world around me?

This is from a Salt Tooth Writers prompt. Give them a follow!