Draw me out, with brittle charcoal and whittled pencil
Onto whatever surface you can find.
After all, don’t I look better on paper
Than under those merciless rays that overwhelm the outdoors?
Where the external is viewed in however many angles,
And the reflected light is equal parts piercing and protective?
Here, my veins aren’t visible; you don’t see a single pimple or stray strand
Or even what the outline of my face looks like.
Here, in a line or two, the internal is traced, a strand of genotype that was never expressed.
Right, left, right, left, right, and then left again;
Though a dimension is lacking, it is almost easier to get lost.