I am vacant-
a screaming churning chasm
of possibility
both malicious and marvelous.
My mind is an empty chalkboard
with hastily erased marks,
vanished to make room
for the teachings
of my next glossator.

I will be
your Athenian and
your Spartan,
your Madonna
and your Whore.
At a single word,
I would lick
your wounds (an ever
subservient nurse)
and climb into bed
with you after (debase
me however, so long as
you say it is my purpose).

I don’t remember
my mother tongue-
I have been dragged
across countless
expanses of language.
Translate me,
spread me open
and gouge new meaning
from the words etched
on my vertebrae.
Affix me with adjectives
and conjugate me,
propagate your meaning
through my name
given dispassionately
to the world
of men.

My hair is flaxen,
or fiery as sunset
reflection on open water,
or the inky stain
of the little hours
before dawn.
My eyes are verdant,
or perhaps cerulean,
honeyed brown
in a certain slant of light.
My skin is porcelain,
molten gold,
Nubian dark.
When I pass a mirror by,
there is no longer a reflection-
just a faded and flickering
silhouette dancing
with uncertainty.

Consistency:
in each version,
my blood is despairingly red.

When you
thumb irreverently
through my pages,
would you please
tell me the girl
spelled out
in the final
chapter?

– Kayleigh Tabor

Note: This piece was previously featured in an exhibition by The Words Faire on March 27, 2026.