By Gabrielle Munslow
Art to me is everything.
It’s in my unmade bed,
The chipped coffee mug with lipstick on the rim.
The baby-pink knickers flung over the side,
Worn once,
Then swapped for a pair of Bridget Jones—
Sensible. Safe. Real.
Art is in my makeup,
And the women it lets me become.
I can be anyone
With the right mask.
I paint on flamingo-pink lipstick
And my eyes turn to liquorice allsorts—
Dark. Glossy. Full of stories.
I never know where I’m going in my poetry.
It’s a living, breathing flame
And I refuse to tame it.
I am treacle arms
And marshmallow legs.
A sunflower head,
Always chasing warmth—
Not from the sun,
But from applause.
From nods.
From handshakes.
From the need to be seen.
Why do I crave acceptance?
I’ve never been run-of-the-mill—
So why should I expect my poetry to be?
Art is
My drooping sunflowers,
Bleeding into one another
In a final, furious gasp of life.
Their swan song.
Art is in the number creeping up on the scale.
In the celluloid reel,
Freezing stolen moments
That time can’t erase.
Art is in the stars above—
And in the constellations
Flickering in your eyes.
I am art.
All soft curves and hidden maps,
Begging to be explored.
Art is the seagull’s cry,
Cursing the sky.
It’s in everything.
Everyone.
Everywhere.
I look at my sunflowers—
Fibonacci flowers—
And I marvel at the art
Of simply being alive.
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