He wants me at first sight.
His glorious, thick-lipped smile,
surrounded by deep and dazzling dimples,
a square, solid jaw and chiseled cheekbones,
shines in the light of his well-worn work truck.
A whirlwind courtship and I am spinning.
I’m a beautiful ballerina in pink toe shoes.
Yet, I’m a clumsy cog, a contrivance,
desperately longing to find my home.
He wants too much of me.
He is insatiable in his desire.
“Sing for me,” he chants.
“You could be a star! I can see it now.”
His dark brow highlights clever, hazel eyes.
His button nose hides his
heritage, but his thick accent
gives him away.
He reeks of macho ideals and an entrepreneurial spirit.
He asks my parents for my hand.e’s doggedly determined.
A stony shiver runs down my barely-bent spine.
I push the far-off fear away
and dig deeper
into the safety of the sofa.
Sweet sadness kisses the girl
with hidden harbored afflictions.
The fair haired, pale skinned girl
with narrow back and large back end.
I’ve a delicate face and bright green eyes
with feet and ears as large as a man’s.
My fiery wit and sultry smile
hide the black cloud within my brain.
I have it all. Unwrap me.
I’m a prize in Nordstrom wrappings,
but also a stunning disappointment
in Prada heels.
A circle of gold slips possessively
on my relegated ring finger
in a land of strangers.
Their dark eyes burrow into me,
yet I wear my smile
like a shield.
Foreign tongues chant in ceremony,
and I am told to drink
the thick, sweet rosy wine. A bitter
spirit that offends my tongue.
A sad smile sits on my decorated face
like the painted palms
lining the path to the white wedding canopy.
My stomach groans. A rabbi chants.
In my mind, I chew on
French manicured fingernails.
Our bed is a crocodile pit with no rest.
Penurious, predatory eyes
cast an eerie glow on the taupe walls.
Green monsters snap at my innocent
toes
until my posture curves toward them
in subservience.
I made my pristine, picture-perfect bed,
so I remain there, despite the accepted
agony.
Every day, a new reason to hate
myself.
Each tireless tirade
with flailing hands and pounding fists leave me
alone.
I stare at the books on the shelf
to keep my composure,
while his Pacman mouth
spews ugly lies and spittle.
A thick spine of leathery brown
tells of long lost lessons of the Torah.
A tuft of black hair
juts out of the venomous
v-neck of his t-shirt.
His calloused hand hits the
soft skin of my face, but I don’t cry.
Nor do I wince. I merely stare
blankly ahead in the dimly lit boudoir
where jade jailbirds roam free
on diamond-patterned carpet.
Where is that lavishly lucky girl?
Who is this broken wife
who’s stolen her life?
I hide, pitifully, behind my extra
bulk
wishing away his crocodile cruelty.
The numbness envelopes me in its
superficially loving arms.
I become the hateful creature
that he wants me to be
and he hates me for this, too.
I hide in the shadows of the room,
but I am still visible.
I become a buttercream butterfly
free of the tirade
in the abruptly transformed bedroom
feeling the faraway freedom
of the acquiescent air on my newborn wings.
The pinched nerve decompresses
and I begin to fly
high above the ravenous room,
the frail, foreign female,
the mixed up, tormented macho male
and the pain held hostage
by the stranger I’ve become.
Feb 25, 2018
Feb 25, 2018 at 3:15 PM UTC
He wants me at first sight.
His glorious, thick-lipped smile,
surrounded by deep and dazzling dimples,
a square, solid jaw and chiseled cheekbones,
shines in the light of his well-worn work truck.
A whirlwind courtship and I am spinning.
I’m a beautiful ballerina in pink toe shoes.
Yet, I’m a clumsy cog, a contrivance,
desperately longing to find my home.
He wants too much of me.
He is insatiable in his desire.
“Sing for me,” he chants.
“You could be a star! I can see it now.”
His dark brow highlights clever, hazel eyes.
His button nose hides his
heritage, but his thick accent
gives him away.
He reeks of macho ideals and an entrepreneurial spirit.
He asks my parents for my hand.e’s doggedly determined.
A stony shiver runs down my barely-bent spine.
I push the far-off fear away
and dig deeper
into the safety of the sofa.
Sweet sadness kisses the girl
with hidden harbored afflictions.
The fair haired, pale skinned girl
with narrow back and large back end.
I’ve a delicate face and bright green eyes
with feet and ears as large as a man’s.
My fiery wit and sultry smile
hide the black cloud within my brain.
I have it all. Unwrap me.
I’m a prize in Nordstrom wrappings,
but also a stunning disappointment
in Prada heels.
A circle of gold slips possessively
on my relegated ring finger
in a land of strangers.
Their dark eyes burrow into me,
yet I wear my smile
like a shield.
Foreign tongues chant in ceremony,
and I am told to drink
the thick, sweet rosy wine. A bitter
spirit that offends my tongue.
A sad smile sits on my decorated face
like the painted palms
lining the path to the white wedding canopy.
My stomach groans. A rabbi chants.
In my mind, I chew on
French manicured fingernails.
Our bed is a crocodile pit with no rest.
Penurious, predatory eyes
cast an eerie glow on the taupe walls.
Green monsters snap at my innocent
toes
until my posture curves toward them
in subservience.
I made my pristine, picture-perfect bed,
so I remain there, despite the accepted
agony.
Every day, a new reason to hate
myself.
Each tireless tirade
with flailing hands and pounding fists leave me
alone.
I stare at the books on the shelf
to keep my composure,
while his Pacman mouth
spews ugly lies and spittle.
A thick spine of leathery brown
tells of long lost lessons of the Torah.
A tuft of black hair
juts out of the venomous
v-neck of his t-shirt.
His calloused hand hits the
soft skin of my face, but I don’t cry.
Nor do I wince. I merely stare
blankly ahead in the dimly lit boudoir
where jade jailbirds roam free
on diamond-patterned carpet.
Where is that lavishly lucky girl?
Who is this broken wife
who’s stolen her life?
I hide, pitifully, behind my extra
bulk
wishing away his crocodile cruelty.
The numbness envelopes me in its
superficially loving arms.
I become the hateful creature
that he wants me to be
and he hates me for this, too.
I hide in the shadows of the room,
but I am still visible.
I become a buttercream butterfly
free of the tirade
in the abruptly transformed bedroom
feeling the faraway freedom
of the acquiescent air on my newborn wings.
The pinched nerve decompresses
and I begin to fly
high above the ravenous room,
the frail, foreign female,
the mixed up, tormented macho male
and the pain held hostage
by the stranger I’ve become.
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