the
girls at the counter have
called me beautiful closely
followed by it's disgusting
meant as an endearment, but
i feel every letter sink into
my heels, like sharp rocks
on the islands down by
the Arkansas--the ones
you don't expect that
your flesh rolls over,
smarting in the late
summer fuzz---but I've
always felt this way, like
rolls and wetness, curls and
clumps of mud sacked and
tied onto my joints, buried
by the sound of my own
laughter with a headstone
reading couldn't love herself
enough, rest in pieces.

God, I hate girls like you
zipped up with a smile and
punctuated by a hearty
chuckle--just kidding
yeah, me too.
because I
used to be the
wallweed who
was too forward
with her affections
unlearned the art of
grace--on how to say
thank you without
a hint of panic,
because they
teach you that
an agreement over
beauty should only be
one-sided, should only
be an extended invite as
long as you're not there
as long as the compliment
coats you but never takes
residence
how
then


do I say thank you to that?


I'm not trying to dredge up every
instance where beautiful was
replaced with ugly, where gorgeous
fell in line with rejection, where attention
was reversed with inadequacy--because
not every speckled bruised from my
childhood came from a direct hit
but all grew from the same
seed, the same insult, the
same withering glance
that taught me I
should be careful
where I put my
thank-yous
where my
heart lies
in the seat
of it, bleeding
out discrepancies,
escape plans, and
a certain measure
of unbelief that
cannot be gainsaid.