Release

I spent 15 minutes this morning examining my face. It was strange. That lady glaring back at me had a look on her face that shouted "What?!" She was frustrated that I took suck care in applying under eye cream, the liner to open up my tired eyes that I belligerently pulled the corners upward- just to see what an eye lift would do for me. Just to see. I'm sliding towards 30. I trace every wrinkle and suggestion of a wrinkle on my face. that bitch in the mirror is pissed. She does not like this tired ritual. Stop pinching the fat that gathers around the waist, the hips- it steals time. They will love you anyway.

Sometimes, I will be that frisky gal in the mirror and listen- forget the shit that comes with being a female, the physical judgment, mostly self-induced. I know I cannot air-brush myself before I leave the house, so I instead brush my shoulders off, call myself beautiful, eat a big sandwich, and take on the day. But I do not think the difficulty of this task is truly appreciated. Women, those magazines, the billboards, the light banter of what we eat, how often we work out or hit the gym- it's a competition isn't it? Thinner, blonder, less carbs, more Pilate's, suck it out, pile it on, shorter skirts, higher heels, less respect, but more attention. Sex it power is healing is money.

Is it degrading or empowering? I cannot decide. All I know is sometimes I cannot face the gal in the mirror. I hate her. I hate myself. I hate the physical being. I hate having to eat. I hate pudgy. I hate having to squeeze into clothing that makes me appealing. I love being a woman, but hate what it entails. No, I don't have to... technically, but I feel as if I am held to female standards set by the Virgin Mary- so perfect, Eve- so daring and knowledgeable, purring and perfect Eartha Kitt, Maxim models so tragically poured into their lingerie ready and ripe, brazen Veronica Lake, smoldering Betty Grable- I want that. The bar is set so high- I cannot disappoint these strong and glorious women who came before, but I am so small, weak, and plain. I cannot face the mirror some days.

Feature by feature, I do okay. When you place it all together, I feel like a Picasso, or a Mr. Potato Head. Not right, modpodge. I stress about it- wonder if others can see my physical defects. Can you see the blues written upon my imperfect face? The sharpness in the nose, the uneven-ness in the cheeks, particularly the jowls? The skin tone, so blotchy? Do you see? Do you SEE? I am not alright.

Hypnotized in front of the mirror, ignoring the protesting reflection. Rubbing cold cream under dark under eye circles. You can find me here each night, performing my beauty rituals, praying for release.

Untitled

I abuse those closest to me,
And so, for your own protection,
I build walls that would make the Chinese envious.
If you find a break,
And dare to wiggle yourself through,
I lash out.
I scream, I yell, I throw remote controls at trembling heads.
I am mean without trying.
I don’t like to hurt you.

I stole your eyes from your head
While you were sleeping- unawares.
I felt a burning need to see myself
Through your eyes.

I hate myself, you call me beautiful.
I get cut, you bleed.
I blow myself into pieces, you glue the puzzle back together.

I had to know-
What are you seeing in me that I can’t?

Midnight surgery.
Placing your still warm eyes into my own head
I can see.
The edges of the world are not blurry,
And everything gives off a slightly golden aura.

I look at myself,
With the theft of your vision.
I see a strange thing.
Me, but not me.

I sleep next to you-
Spread eagle-
To take up as much space as possible.
I look incredibly vulnerable,
Lying there trying to be big in my slumber.
My lips are puffy and cracked, but it suits me.
There is yesterday’s eyeliner smeared under my eyes.
My curls have gone crazy and spewed themselves in all directions.
I look tired. I look small. I look innocent. I look scared.

Your eyes love the slight.
They shoot balmy messages to my brain that scream:
Love! Beauty! Protect! Console! Embrace!

My brain is confused by these signals.
It knows its owner would never warrant the idea of needing protection.
I peel back my eyelids and remove your view from my head-
Place it back where it belongs.

Then I look at you.
Honey, drugs are not a good thing.
They skew your ability to see things for how they are.

Love is the worst drug of all.

Wild Woman

Wild woman.
Jungle woman.
Untamed, undomesticated, unmanageable.
They talk about your black eyes and red red red lips.

They want you;
Not to love, but to possess.
To place upon a shelf,
Shine you monthly,
And let the whole world know:
I won this. This is mine.

My lovely feral woman,
You know not their desires,
But you can tell them all about:
Loneliness
Square pegs in round holes
A throbbing womb
A desire to be touched gently
Dreams of strong accommodating arms.

Woman,
I hope you stay wild.
Be resilient- follow your instincts.
You are stronger than they will ever know.

Love is a jungle:
A fierce and uncultivated world,
Full of vines to trip up your feet,
Flowers to poison you,
Snakes with slick tongues.

And though I know,
Sweet wild woman,
That you were born into this ruthless situation,
Only you need to know,
That you-
Black eyes
Red red red lips-
Are the Queen of this Jungle,
This Maze,
This muddle,
This mess.

Time to reign.

Crabgrass

The Memory of you is
as stubborn as crabgrass-
slowly but surely
replacing
the grass of my brain
with your maze-like roots-
until finally you have consumed me.

I cannot go an hour
without you snaking your way into
my thoughts.
The fights we have over music.
The way you pull my hair,
like a child let wild on a playground.
A comment you made about my red lipstick.

I dreamt of you last night.
We were rock stars,
and while we sang
we kept eye contact with
each other rather than
our screaming audience.

The dream haunts me today.
All I can think is:
What does it mean?

What does it mean?

Untitled

I worry about you
little boy image of me.
Though I guess at this age,
I can't call you little boy anymore.

You are always shaggy and unkempt,
and yes, this can be excused with your tender teenage years,
but your eyes have a look I recognize and know all too well.
It's the look that scares me when I peer into the woman in the mirror.
They are the eyes of someone I pretend not to be,
and someone I tried to hide from you.

That look on your face,
that sweet face that resembles my own so much.
The outbursts for attention.
"Love me. Please, love me,"
your eyes scream.

I understand my dear child,
who is not my own child,
but I certainly wish you were.

I can recount your whole life.
You kept me sane in a chaotic adolescence.

At 2 years old,
headbanging in the back seat
to old classic rock songs,
while big sis took me to school.
If I turned the song you liked,
you'd kick the back of my chair until I flipped it back.
I've changed so many of your diapers,
watched you so many times while you slept,
holding you close and rubbing your back as you cried,
cleaned so many scraped knees and banged elbows,
that I feel I own you.
Maybe I owe you.

Now you are too old to let me hold you
when you are upset.
You are stuck in a hurricane of a home,
and always scared of what the storm may fling towards you-
be it death or domestic dispute
or just general anger and frustration
projected upon your slim boy shoulders.

It is not fair, my dear heart,
that you have to leave home to feel safe.
It's not right that you have to play man of the house,
because you learned at far too young of an age
that some women need more love than it is possible to give.

I see how this wears you down little man.
You sleep on couches of family members.
You are torn between the way it was
and wanting to make her happy.
You lack the experience needed to know-
you can't do that for her.

So little boy/man,
when you show up on my doorstep,
young enough to forget to brush your teeth,
but old enough to have questions about dating etiquette,
at 7 am on a Saturday-
Don't fret.
I'll always let you in.

Fog

I spend my days in a fog-
gently the mist clouds my facilities.

It's a welcome fog.
I don't want to think anymore.
there are too many things-
too many banshees on my windowsill.

When the fog lifts,
I am more disorientated,
gasping for breath in the clean air.

My head is not accoustomed to noise
such as this,
this life,
these problems,
the questions of:
What do I do now?
Where are we going?
Or, scariest of them all:
Am I happy?

So when the fog rolls back in,
I am grateful.
I pull it around my breast like a security blanket.

When you have a brain such as mine,
a curse seems very much like a blessing.

Ted, the cell in the small intestine

Abstract is difficult for me
-but-
I can tell you that
today
I know
rooted somewhere deep inside my small intestine
a tiny cell named Ted
is having a heated discussion with a friend
about how my brain
must be experiencing the exact same emotions as
a jelly donut in SoHo.
They have decided that this donut does not deserve to die
just because the baker decided to make said donut delicious.

It's not the donut's fault.
Why should he become
69 cents worth
of some stoner's sticky pleasure
and then be promptly forgotten?

Another cell
from the recesses of the large intestine
(I don't know his name)
counters back:
"Ted, you forget how vicious things are out there.
What about the poor man making the fated donut?
He must have motive.
He must need money to provide for his basic needs-
a family, shelter, and all that."
He has a very high-pitched voice
for a cell residing in the larger of the intestines.
"At least," he continues
"It seems that way to me
but what do I know?
I am only on the interior of
exterior goings-on."

Ted seems to hang what may
or may not
be his head. He and his friend move on
to another
lighter
subject-
temporarily reprimanded.