maybe if i covered myself with tattoos or just paint shot myself with guns filled with ink and lipstick and perfume and moved to the city dressed in graffiti (both me, and the city) i could camouflage myself amongst the grit and the dirt and i could hide and then nobody would ever have to see me again as savannah but a work of art, some would call me is that a banksy they’d inquire because they would think i was made of bricks or concrete or bicycle tires but since i’m made of skin and not bricks (although they’re both equally beaten, bruised and crumbling marked with initials inside hearts and scars from what’s hit hard enough to break skin in the past) no one really calls those things art they all say i should try and cover