I remember the first time
that I was called pretty.
I was eight years old.
I remember feeling
a bubble of insecurity
hover around me,
like an ant
under a microscope.
At eight years old,
I had experienced
my very first wave
of expectations of women
in a male dominated society.
I had no idea
that would be the first
of many by the time
I reached womanhood.
I was just a child.
I loved playing in the dirt,
and capturing bull frogs.
I was a girl
who played like a boy.
I never thought I was pretty,
not because I had
low self esteem,
but because
I was eight years old.
I was to young
to have pretty
wrapped up in my identity.
Fast forward
eight more years.
I am sixteen now.
I am no longer
playing in the dirt,
or capturing bull frogs.
I am painting my nails
bright pink,
and dying my hair
every two weeks.
I am trying to be pretty.
I am no longer
feeling the bubble of insecurity.
I am living in it
twenty four seven.
I am always concerned
with how I look,
how I act,
and what I say.
I am a girl
who is no longer a tomboy.
I am just a girl.
I no longer know
who I am,
because I am
not allowed
to be who I am.
I am expected
to sit quietly
in the corner,
straightening my hair,
perfecting my makeup,
so that a boy
who loves my body
can tell me he loves me,
and make me his wife.
Fast forward
4 more years.
I am twenty now.
I am numb
to the insecurity.
I am now expected
to live in a suburb,
raise three kids,
clean the house,
love my husband,
and my white picket fence.
I am just another girl
who is seen as pretty.
I am living a lifeless life.
I am at a crossroads
to either stay down
under the weight
of societies expectations,
or burn my picket fence
right down to the ground.
I am remembering
that tomboy I was
before I was called pretty.
I can either reconnect
with her fierceness,
or hide beyond a mask
of beige concealer.
I can either be a dove,
or I can be a phoenix.
I think
the choice is obvious.

In restaurant
a professional man
with a laptop,
just moved out
from neighbouring table
leaving water
on the drinking glass.
we saw,
One friend said, "Half full.."
another friend said, "Half empty.."
Listening to our conversation
then the bearer came
and said, " what a way to waste
scarce natural resources.."

She takes off her top
to reveal her undershirt
to show off the scars,
flee bites,
and other red parts.

But there is something else
that cuts her deeper then
those bites and scratches.

She cries, and each tear
each sobbing breath
that stretches itself
is just an etching of
the lack of love
and the presence of
more tangible pains.

So tiny this tender spark
almost breaks my heart.
Dark hair spreads
down her face to her neck
brushing her tiny lips
and falling to her breast.

Teenage girl
crushed and uncertain
if the hurting she experiences
will ever find its end.

So like hash tags
and youtube video
her loneliness becomes
a trend.

She tries to sings.
She tries to write.
She tries to draw.
She tries to dance.

She lets some stranger
take her out at night
not on a date but to find the light
of some long dead guy,
cause she only relates to the dead
and anime characters in her head,
not the people who
cause her tears to soak through
past the sheets to the plastic mattress.

The gravel roads parts
splitting in the dark
of her macabre obsession.

She leans over the edge
of an invisible ledge.
Only her younger friend
can pull her back in
safely out of the wind
that was beating
down on both of them.

She is halfway between
today and yesterday
reigning in the rain that
longs to drown her
pulling her farther back
into the empty black.

I never did tell you but,

You were my best friend
I was your obsession & infatuation

I suppose that is why my feelings remain
While yours suddenly waned

Dragonfly lights on the lily  
her veined wings translucent
morning sun on the shimmering dewy grass
seeps through seducing my eyes
drawing me in to this delicious glory.