2/7/2015

"you're a pig," he spat
"yeah," I fished out a stolen
Newport.

"I never knew a woman
could be so cold, you treat men
like objects or something!"

I shrugged it off and threw the
Good cigarette to the ground.
No time for that.

"are you implying I have the
prophetic male gaze"
"I didn't say anything, just that
you're cold"

I smiled, stuck my thumbs up
Right. See you later

when am i going to be
enough

She lacks confidence, she craves admiration insatiably. She lives on the reflections of herself in the eyes of others. She does not dare to be herself.
-Anaïs Nin*

I had a good day because the woman at Starbucks spelled my name right,
because the boy at work recognized that I doubt myself before I even finish an answer to a question,
which struck me because
who notices?
I had a good day because I carried myself to the gym, where I watched myself in other's metal eyes and cringed, where I saw my reflection in the windows and wished,
oh. You know.
That I didn't take up so much room and that my appetite would decrease,
and I sit here now thinking about food and wondering
when will it end? The constant whining of my vanity
and needy innards screaming "shrink me"!
The sullen desires build up and well over, and I become a vessel again. I become
something less.

here, i offered a small thing,
a weak thing. a thing that doesn't speak
or move, but briefly feels warm to a palm's touch.
i offered it so slowly, without realizing consciously what i'd done,
but when i do notice...

when i do notice,
my palms shake as i watch it spill to the floor,
regret twinges all over and i
made such a huge mistake. such a huge mistake.
i took a chance. i risked, i risked because
life tells you

reach, reach, reach
whispers
don't think, do
paints a possibility portrait, makes you fall in love with ideas
and then you stumble through
you trip.
you offer it,
and you can't take it back.

i'm completely devoted to falling asleep slowly,
those 3 pm's, laundry mountain on my bed,
dreaming/thinking possibilities and plans
and too tired to have anxiety about to-morrow's
and to-do's.
i drift in and out of consciousness,
the upstair's neighbors' crisp footsteps
thieve me from dreams
but i always settle, and still,
and drift back to my dewy and downy snooze.

calls from dark cars, the fear that grips my stomach when I walk the shortcut, the movements behind me always
throw my heart around rough and sandpapery. I am tired of being

embarrassed, having to explain myself, having to ask for forgiveness from others because my body warrants these men’s shark bites, these fins in the water

circling, making everyone around me feel uncomfortable. If I could take a knife and cut out pieces of me to hand to every menace in the night who slowed down to stare at my moving body,

I would give those pieces to them, blooded, dripping, raw with human soul and expression because I am
not his “girl” and I am not “babe” and I am not “****” and I am not whistles from the alley
and I am not drunken breath on lips,
I am afraid

to bear a girl one day, and have her carry the weight of undoubted beauty, of sparkling eyes, of lips that sing and announce and scream. but I know her shoulders will be strong
and her middle fingers will grow to be made of steel

I'm itchy-throat,
ripping open packets of tea,
waiting for the sickness to come.
Sweating at night,
shivering through wind to class,
(southern winters are very real)
My body aches the same way,
all through my limbs,
and I regret not kissing you more before
this overtakes me.