Oct 2018
I am sixteen,
walking down winnie in the middle of summer
heat waving thick fingers in the air, taunting
I am wearing sweatpants and a hoodie
all my layers of self and self defeating comfort eating are not enough to cover me
I have the hood pulled over my hair
*****, too short, uncared for
I am carrying a novel, something cheap and badly written
a friend from school passes by me, waves, I turn away
pretend I don't see them
I stuff my hands in the soft pockets, grab a handful of hip meat, it feels like that scene in Lord of the Rings where juice runs down the chin of a false king
I wear anxiety heavy around my face, I don't recognize myself without it
but depression is not a word I can touch
it doesn't fit me
it doesn't belong in my charismatic vocabulary
I don't know that I am drowning
wet mouth smacking and finger tapping make me feel like my mind is an experimental horror film
how are small sounds so loud?
how do they crawl into my ear canal like an animorph alien?
I was always so afraid of those books
and the sounds outside of our tent when my brother read them to me
I am so afraid of everything
I am sixteen
It's 98 degrees outside
and I am walking down the street in three layers of winter gear
and fear
and self hatred
and I cannot identify it
I don't know that I will be beautiful
I don't know that I already am
I don't know that my hands will pick wildflowers out of words
and that my life will be a practice of arranging bouquets for kitchen tables
I don't know that my hair will be long and easy to twirl around one finger, without thinking about the action
actions won't always feel like eyes watching me in and of themselves
I don't know that I will pull on jeans without thinking about the way they don't lay flat against me
I don't know that curves can be custard on the tip of a finger, sweet and nostalgic tapioca,
gritty and dimpled and perfect for sundays
and mine and plenty
and pretty
I don't know that I will be beautiful
I don't know that I already am
walking down winnie in the middle of summer
heat waving thick fingers in the air, taunting
I am wearing sweatpants and a hoodie
all my layers of self and self defeating comfort eating are not enough to cover me
I have the hood pulled over my hair
*****, too short, uncared for
I am carrying a novel, something cheap and badly written
a friend from school passes by me, waves, I turn away
pretend I don't see them
I stuff my hands in the soft pockets, grab a handful of hip meat, it feels like that scene in Lord of the Rings where juice runs down the chin of a false king
I wear anxiety heavy around my face, I don't recognize myself without it
but depression is not a word I can touch
it doesn't fit me
it doesn't belong in my charismatic vocabulary
I don't know that I am drowning
wet mouth smacking and finger tapping make me feel like my mind is an experimental horror film
how are small sounds so loud?
how do they crawl into my ear canal like an animorph alien?
I was always so afraid of those books
and the sounds outside of our tent when my brother read them to me
I am so afraid of everything
I am sixteen
It's 98 degrees outside
and I am walking down the street in three layers of winter gear
and fear
and self hatred
and I cannot identify it
I don't know that I will be beautiful
I don't know that I already am
I don't know that my hands will pick wildflowers out of words
and that my life will be a practice of arranging bouquets for kitchen tables
I don't know that my hair will be long and easy to twirl around one finger, without thinking about the action
actions won't always feel like eyes watching me in and of themselves
I don't know that I will pull on jeans without thinking about the way they don't lay flat against me
I don't know that curves can be custard on the tip of a finger, sweet and nostalgic tapioca,
gritty and dimpled and perfect for sundays
and mine and plenty
and pretty
I don't know that I will be beautiful
I don't know that I already am
