Spoken Word Poetry

When Strangers Clap

And I am naked

When strangers clap I don’t know how to be, how to sit with this. Because I am writing my soul and they see my nakedness and

they clap.

Why are they clapping? Is it a pity clap? Does my nakedness impress them? Are they frightened of my hair and

skin and fat? I tell myself I don’t care. I tell my self I am naked for my own sake. I am naked to be free and full and alive.

When strangers clap I get a thrill that I feel down deep in the pit of my stomach, in my bones, on top of every tiny goose bump. I also

got goosebumps sitting in the dark in November three years ago watching as my nation chose a clown. An orange clown. That, too, was thrilling, deep down to my stomach bones but

not in a good way. Do the clappers see me as a clown? A fraud? Do I see myself thus? Standing naked and raw

in the mirror I ask myself Who Am I? And I define myself with my pen and paper and I wonder if the mirror speaks true. I wonder if these claps

are applause or slaps and

I shriek eeeeee because I barely know how to be alone in the dark confines of my skull and I find myself standing on a high hill in the wide open bright