Hijacked by the side of myself
That can’t stand to see you cringe for
Your love must be so frail that the
Simplest error could cause rupture,
An earthquake toppling structures built
On unfirm foundations, say that you won’t
Make that face at me. I must be
Mad to believe, but I’m never
Mad at you, of course, that
Would mean needs and I feed
Myself, thank you very much, I have
No requirements of you, truly I do
Not.

But.
What might you do if I were to ask, to
Beg, task you with the burden of
Supporting me, see me for what I am
Past sham and charade to the scared
Child, wild and wide-eyed, terrified,
And violent, but ever so silent. Quiet
As a squashed mouse held too
Tightly in hands so mightily clenched
I can’t wrench my voice free from
This giant holding me, fingers not pliant
But plaster, an alabaster carving starving
My throat of speaking, it’s protecting me
By deflecting my own thoughts onto endless
Mirrors and I’m stuck in the funhouse echo chamber
While you remain safe, un-doused in my
Hose of half cries for help. ‘Hear me, please’
I manage to whisper from what feels like
The grave though I’m floating out of body.

Catch my thread and tie me down, fly
Me like a kite you once loved, watch
and I'll dance in the wind knowing I’m spiked down
By you, and whenever I choose, you shall
Reel me in and steal me away from the
Harsh gusts, I need not be battered by
Everything, even though I know I can take it.
I make it my duty to be put through all,
A tall order even for me, but ‘no more’, I plead.
This time, I’m asking myself, not you.
This time, it is me I must appeal to,
seal my self-inflicted wounds with kisses,
Square my hips and say with brave and trembling lips,
‘I need you. --
I need your help.’

My body is not the same as it was.
A most obvious statement with an
All too familiar accompanied disappointment in the truth of it.
It rings in my ear like a persistent alarm,
You. Look. Different.

It’s been a year since I had an infant pulled out of me from a tear in my belly, they pried me open then sewed me closed,
I’ve never shaken so much in my life
as when I was bringing it forth.
I look different now.

I reached out to touch her face but my quaking limbs scared me, I didn’t want her first touch to be by accident, I
looked upon her instead, and then I fed her.
I was so pale, she so red, like she took all of my
blood with her on the way out,
A weight lifted from me,
but not the one I wanted.

I have weight, still.
But I’m not carrying anyone inside me anymore,
besides the demon that stayed in her stead
and sprinkled dread and convulsion into
My abdomen. I see my belly, and I’m repulsed.

But remember, a gentle voice reminds me,
Do you remember what you have done?
From sunlight and water and time in the world
I have created a little girl.
And that creation still lies within me
even though she is without,
I am round with fertile ground,
I’m not fat, I’m full.
This mound on me is sacred and now used to hold life as she grows.

I look different now.
My body is not the same as it was.
It’s become tree and canopy to raise
And shade a life bigger than me. When
I birthed her, I became as old as the earth itself.
And the world is not excessive, but abundant, and
Isn’t that a most wonderful thing?

I brim and sing with possibility.
I overflow and flower.
I look different now.
My body is not the same as it was.

it won't surprise anyone
who knows me to find out
I'm an aggressive player-
impulsive, I see my advantage quickly
and take it or make one from go-
show no mercy, I love beating men
at what they think is their game.
see the shame on faces as they
realize their assumptions,
she actually could be good, and
should I choose to, you will lose
to me so fast you'll be on your
knees and not know how you got there.
It won't surprise you to know
that I play with a ferocity of
fighting for my life, because, in
a way, I am. my heartbeat
is tied to winning. But they don't know
me, and it's with disgust
and indignation I remember,
yet again, they are shocked that
this girl is a force, could
give them a run for their money
and have no remorse.

I step into the elevator, wait
For the doors to shut, hate
Seeping out of my pores I
Raise my hand and take a breath,
Land a palm upon my face and
Replace my despair with pain,
I gain a redness to erase the
Shameful droplets I’m so
Tired of mopping up.
I strike again.

A fist closes and makes contact
With abdomen then thigh, my cries
muffled by a relieved sigh
That I may release the fury that
I could not curry favor with all
My labor I have done for you, you.
I strike again.

The two lights up, and I claw
Nails into the soft underbelly of
An arm, it’s mine but it’s not,
I’ve taught myself dismemberment
And I treat my limbs with a disdain
They don’t deserve but I can’t
Beat my brain so I trigger nerves
Within reach instead. I calm
This dread of imperfection with a
Swift direction of more blows.
I strike again.
And step out as the doors close.

gather me in scooping hands
like marbles scattered
on a hardwood floor, I'm
garbled and tattered, a
pulp fiction with gulping diction
swallowed words and swelling
winds of sighs release at my
lips, I sip in air and expel
with a gust that rushes past
honesty and straight down
the throat of unsuspecting
victims who leave their mouths
open to receive oxygen but
instead ******* misgivings
in the form of a breathy exhale

I'm cold all the time, I think
my bones are frozen, cooling
me from the inside out and
that's why I shiver and quake
like a trembling earth about
to erupt and crack, it's core
dead, reaching the end
of my cosmic life
and ready to become a moon,
(is that how it works?)
let me pull your tides so you
may ride the waves of your
own sea while I cease happily
to be.

I'd like to ride again. I
wait patiently in line for
my ego rollercoaster, ready
to rise slowly, building
my anticipation, only to glimpse
the drop before falling down
down
down
into a spiral of nausea and
head jerks from left to right
looping back on myself and
ending at the bottom,
coming to a halt at
self-loathing, only to
start creating again so that
I can feel that tick tick tick of
my cart being pulled up the track again,
eager for the nosedive.
I'm addicted to the adrenaline
of feeling great and then remembering
I'm terrible and my art was the best,
no wait, the worst ever created.

the problem is
I'll never be good enough for myself.
I've no one left to get approval from,
they've all come and gone and I'm
left with me and she is a naysayer,
a slayer of dreams and it seems like
she couldn't deem me adequate if
it meant saving my life from knife or
rope, yet here we are, she and I,
standing on the same precipice.
I look down and she says my chin
looks fat like that.
I raise my head, and am asked
what do I have to be proud of?
shroud of imposter syndrome,
begone! Bygones, all of these
insults I've tossed at me, I
can forget them all each day
and wake anew, ready to redo
all the hate I slew at myself
just hours before.
A short memory is important
for my survival, I can't thrive
in these harsh conditions I've
painstakingly crafted, but I
can have a raft for these rough waters
as I traverse perverse landscapes
and try not to scrape all
my skin off along the way,
maybe that's a win, I'll hear her say.