It is Written


In the forest of my faces

In the darkness of my heart

In the ashes of the traces

Of the faces in the dark


In the outback of my ribcage

In the wasteland of my pain

In the birdcage of my image

In the desert of my name


It is written in the contours

Of the cracks within my skin

It is written in the fractures

Of the branches of my limbs


It is written in grace

In the space between my atoms

It is written in the face

Of my faceless  constellations


It is written in the swirling

Of the cosmos of my eyes

In the sea shells of my ears

In the curling  of my sighs


It is written in the ink of my spit

From the stomach of my pit 

And in the pinkness of my sex

It is written in my death


As without

So within