I write to take refuge from my accent.
I am told that there is content in the edges of my sound, and history in my pupils.
But you can only know me here, alone, I am accentless, I can not dance or sing or articulate my flesh-
Better to be the lake beneath your curious eyes, silently hearing your soul.
Better to be the silence that we've never known exists.

If you want to see me properly, you must know that I do not exist; you have projected this content onto my flesh.
you have sprinkled my aparation with fairy dust, my beauty is an illusion-
I am just a joint and limb, startled by movement.

The color of my hair is up for interpretation, please do not love me for a freckle of a difference from any moving body, I am the same but to myself.
If you want me, be it only because I am a blinking consciousness like the dumb owl.
Do not disrupt me not talking, I am being my soul. See me like you see yourself, unrelated to characteristic, on a mountain above a fog; I am the pool of your reflection, see me only to see you.

And if you see me cry, do not worry your mind that I too must suffer humanity-
When I die, my tears will become the literature never to be heard.