Life is…competition.
Everything starts with “She’s a good person, but…”
And what does that even mean—‘good’?
It’s such a tricky word…
It trudges and collects, rolling and sticking and melting into a mess.
It covers and confuses.
It oozes…
‘Good.’
It is cavernous and claustrophobic all at once.
Because what do you tack onto that word and what do you leave out?
And how much is too much before good is no longer good?
Before it turns to flaws and flossing teeth—
Revealing surprising grime on white napkins.
Now she’s “‘Mary,’ the kind soul with an eating disorder.”
Life is disorder.
***** fingers constantly filing and misfiling,
sealing cases closed with oversized labels that undermine the contents inside and the very boxes that hold them.
And what does it mean then?
When you are a rectangle and I am a square,
When Mary is placed on the shelf over there?
I am not scared
of the brown—not ***** blonde—roots creeping up from the top of my hair,
of the pimple on my chin.
But what makes me cringe is your satisfied grin when you notice that her daughter
is not quite as thin…
not quite as thin;
It is a sliver of a win,
Like the sliver of cake that you take to your plate
for fear that your trousers might break—
and then—
gasp you’ll belong with them,
cardboard congregated in the corner,
stacked and packed together,
the ones with jean-zippers torn asunder.
I cannot help but wonder
what life is…