Gypsy

Now I am paying for my gypsy blood,
                      for my days spent as a part
                     of the parade.
           Grinding my organ with a monkey
        on my shoulder who loved to skitter
             about nervously and snicker at the life I led,
         I wanted nothing more than to be a member
                        of the tribe.
             My birthright was denied.
                I had to prove myself.
                      And so I did.
    My body spoke before my words, 
       my voice a ghostwriter for my sex.
    I marched until my feet were blistered
            and raw 
                  and I was feverish from the sun.
Even immersed in the swarms of men
     with whom I wanted to immerse myself in, 
  I did not feel my world shift.
      It did not even tremble.
  Rather they became a wash-
     a chorus line of blank faces
  whose tongues produced white noise 
      and hands produced a numbing sensation
    that seeped into every cell 
  so that they were inundated, but unable to feed.
My eyes turned wild and could not take in enough.
  My skin darkened from exposure.
    My body glistened with effort 
   for I was learning how to dance in a different way.
        Trying to prance around the fire without
               falling in and melting.
    I threw myself into the task with a vengeance.
But in the end, I was simply lead to the sea by my own kind
                        and left there to be consumed
              by the crustaceans
         and die gurgling in the briny shallows,
   wishing someone had simply taken me by the hand 
 and led me up the spire, letting my look down on 
     my own exquisite corpse.
  My heartbeats slow like a tambourine 
        dying out and my breath
     becomes a memory.

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