All I see is blank faces

Surrounding and engulfing me;

As if they were copying down every detail of me,

Everything that makes up me.

As  if they actually knew me.

Morphing into different versions of me.

As if I was as readable as a short novel.

And they flip the pages

On and on.

And aren’t looking at the words,

But the numbers on the bottom of the page.

Because if counting is so easy

It must be easy to read people.

Wrong.

I am more then green eyes and freckles

And the slight apparition that wanders down the halls for a little too long.

I am not as easy as reading a book.

I am a whole library;

So complex with an unexcused quietness and a certain elegance in my words.

Culture is infused in my body and courses through my bones.

So stubborn that I have already won the fight we haven’t started.

Literature is art and so am I.

And art isn’t meant to be beautiful

It’s supposed to make you feel something.

I am a piece of art

And art  is viewed differently by everyone.

So label me whatever you please because when you stare into my eyes

You will see unfathomable galaxies and realize

That you will NEVER

Be able to label me with just one glance.