the slightly shrunken reflection
finds my eyes,
smiles with my lips
reaches with hands like my own to caress
my face, as she tries in vain
to show me what I can be.
But I have vowed my way is best,
I've said I'd look no further than
the distance of my own eyes
from my task, and I swiftly break
the bond
like a precious chain around my neck
anchoring me to reason, to purpose.
Freed, I retreat into the cliches I know best,
my bitterness a swallow of whiskey long forgotten about
burning through every rope I ever used
to tie myself to
the girl I wish I saw in the mirror
so beautiful, so beloved,
so imaginary.

see I float around society like a plastic bag sometimes
unseen unless someone needs me

and there are so many truths I've seen
about women

these are the undeniable facts:

Beauty: women love beauty. they are consumed by it. it feeds them till they die, clutching stylish cases and well-worn tubes and knuckles bruised by constant forcing, or they sit in darkened obscure corners waiting for a no-name prince to charm them into believing lies, avoiding mirrors along the way.

Intelligence: it's okay to be smart but not so smart that a man feels five inches tall against the length of the word you just uttered with smooth unaffectedness, if you do that he falters, feels as though his life has been false, and then he tells you to stop reading your books. and you do it, because you fear you may lose him. women hide from the monsters of science and math, drown in the seas of history and literature and pretend all the while, giggles in every breath's pause, that they just don't know. because no one wants a woman who can recite Chaucer but can't even press a decent crease or bake a good cherry pie.

Hard Work Ethic: women were born to work. they work to maintain an illusion, they work to get a man, they work to keep him, they work to make him feel superior, they work in cramped cubicles and then in cramped apartments, making them uncramped, and then in cramped bedrooms under cramped sheets, trying to hide their leg cramp so as to not disturb his concentration.

Confidence: women hate other women who are confident. because those women have learned to disregard every lesson from charm school, and everyone else struggles to find the perfect hair flip. secretly, women love another woman with confidence. because it shows them they can be that reckless one day.

Dress: women want the short skirt in the window. but the directions on the tag are as follows:
DO NOT WEAR WHILE DRINKING. DO NOT WEAR IN COLD WEATHER. DO NOT WEAR WITHOUT PANTYHOSE. DO NOT WEAR IF OVER 130 POUNDS. DO NOT WEAR IN THE COMPANY OF DRUNK MEN. DO NOT WEAR TO SPORTING EVENTS. DO NOT WEAR IN THE PRESENCE OF OTHER WOMEN. DRY CLEAN ONLY. women leave the skirt on the hanger.

Strong Personality: women tell other women to be quiet and keep their heads low. that is all they know. when they were little girls they used to shout. then they became teenagers and were taught to whisper when they wanted something. whispers are saved for secrets, lies and things women want.

Competition: women want men. women want other women. women want people. women are told they want men. women fight for men, because they are taught men are the ultimate prize. women win men and are disappointed with the terms and conditions that apply. but it's too late. they've already won. women wonder what they were fighting for in the first place.

Affluent: women wish money didn't matter but when they're counting pennies for every man's dollar it's hard to ignore.

women are told by men their mothers their sisters their teachers their bosses their world

that they are too loud ****** ugly fat hairy ***** loose slutty uptight frigid emotional stoic competitive timid.

women tell other women these things and think their world will love them for it. women love other women, but begin to believe they don't.

biggest problem women have is with a world that thinks they can't handle their own ****.

you don't know
how grateful I am for you,

sleek and white and silent,
as I stain your fabric with secrets between sobs.

Someday, I promise,
I'll make it up to you.

I'll dress you in those mustard-colored cases
I've had lying in the Home Goods bag for over a month.

I'll cover you up and let you be modest for once,
pretending my life is as happy as your new clothes.

i wish
i could be as sleek, as slim,
as wanted
as the cigarette you slip into your mouth

alighting the chemicals
letting them heat up, expand and
fill your every cavity
with blessed calm

i wish i could be the cancer
that lurks in your lungs

you'd breathe me in
and hold my every note
until the last bubble of oxygen
left your chest

i wish i could burn down to the last
loving drag you take, the satisfying
exhale as gravity claims my ashes.

i wish i could give you everything you wanted
right in that moment; but that would make me
disposable.

when my security
shatters
into sand scattered on the concrete

when my face
burns, melts
into the many little bones
holding it together

when my resolve
scampers down the walk
its leash finally tattered enough to be broken

when my eyes view yours
as they would migraines,
blinking away every fantasy of us together for fear of
pain or nausea or both

when I find myself laboring to
smile, nod, speak
as though the receptors telling me to
obey and interact have lost touch
with their synapses

when you ask me if I'm okay
and I'm struggling under your hand
as you hold me under the surface of my insecurities

and I just say, "Yes."

Before last night, I'd only seen the forbidden-fruit curves and
ripples
rendering my skin unbeautiful.
But in the fluorescent indifference of a drugstore
I caught sight of my legs through eyes not my own,
new tapers and bulges swathed in black spandex
even too flimsy for the $15 price tag,
and wondered why words like "small" and "gap"
were heaven to my ears,
while "quadriceps" and "endurance"
have their own quaint ring,
a lovely taste on the tip of a tongue
which has spent too much time
wallowing in self-hatred.

Strength isn't a virtue in women,
we who learn from birth to take up
as little space as possible.
Our shapes always need shaping,
guiding,
sometimes our own voices telling ourselves
we deserve the pain of fatigue
after one mile too long spent running
up the avenue,
forcing ourselves to faint
for a glimpse of thinner thighs,
we deserve to be dehumanized
if we don't inch our way into
the body laid out for us by
Mother Society.

Where is the place for the girl who
hobbles home, skin bruised purple
but flushed with the accomplishment of stopping
every single shot in practice?
Or for the boy whose gentle hands provide
the perfect perch for a butterfly to land upon?

My strength is not an imperfection.
There is beauty in it, and discipline.
These legs can take me for miles if I
take off the iron vest that keeps me
anchored to a Hollywood version
of myself.

Without it, I can fly.

I wonder what it has for me today, scratching beneath a loose surface,
reaching deep this time,
past the wrist, up to the elbow
for something beyond the dirt and the buried, sleeping
worms I regret waking -- I hate the way they move,
wriggling into the warm holes of my psyche.
This tombstone has witnessed my desecration before,
always silent, but I know judgment awaits.
I should keep it shut, think about putting up a door
with a lock and lose the key instead of
making a workout of moving this slippery stone.
But too late for me or my sanity -- one small push tonight,
and resurrected, they appear --
the slow beach days, the frantic Christmas mornings,
an evergreen in the foyer, dripping with pretense.
Days for miles along Manhattan Island, bright blinding lights,
nights spent whispering past the silent stroke of midnight
as adults stir on the opposite side of thin walls, begging us to sleep;
all of the memories driving me to the dull butter knife of self-hatred
twisting my guts into a Celtic knot.
Breathing hard, I arise, and the work is complete, my shame
left to spill and curdle like milk on a hot sidewalk,
seeping into the disturbed earth.
Blinking away the pain, I take my final breath slowly,
focusing on the rainbow of light glinting off of
my handful of fake pearls, the last bit of treasure I can glean
from this resting place.
My knees can hold me no more.
Consider this a mercy killing.