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 Feb 2014 Squanto
carmen
Sometimes
it all seems so real
     Like this reality weighs heavily on my chest and I can’t breathe.
my stomach jumps and sends this cold fire throughout my body and I feel it.

I feel the world boiling in my consciousness and there’s no release that could possibly be worthy of this feeling.
Then I tell myself I'm just being dramatic and I tamp that feeling down with my fear and sadness and a yearning for eventualities.
Sometimes I’m not sure what I mean.
Sometimes I make stuff up.
But really I’m just an awkward almost-twenty year old who wants her life to be something.
Extraordinary
But.so.is.everyone.else.
And isn’t that right?
Isn’t that rich?
That we are all one.
A vast ocean of “ones”.
I’m really just a wave.
And it is alright to be a wave.
Because waves, they move.
It’s alright to be dramatic though. Why not?
I have this mind that wants out and I keep suppressing it. At least I’m pretty sure I do. Maybe I don’t. Maybe it is only on occasion that I tell it to shut up because it all is just too much.
That’s probably it.
Who am I really?
I guess I could list all of my traits and that could be who I am. Or what I have accomplished in life, and presto, you have…me.
Then there’s this consciousness that sits inside this flesh and controls it. That could be who I am. But that consciousness is just the acts it has achieved and the traits it has portrayed, is it not?
So I guess what I’m saying is.
The I that is me has not achieved satisfactory on my scale of living by which I measure my worth.

Not yet anyway
In the broken kitchen chair he sits
Running his filet knife across the grindstone
The blade mustn't be dull for what he’s about to do
Across the kitchen hangs his days catch
Dangling from one large meat hook
Dripping, warm, fresh, and glassy eyed
Running the blade across his thumb
A future scar in his one of a kind prints
With bulging biceps his prey is lifted from its loft
Tossed carelessly onto the granite counter top
A dangling arm falls into the kitchen sink
The subtle sound of a ring is heard
As it hits the stainless steel basin
This jewelry is soon removed and set aside
With a felt tipped pen he outlines his procedure
Like a world class surgeon preparing to operate
He makes each incision with great care
A soft touch and a steady hand
Experience shows this isn't his first rodeo
Every cut running long and shallow
He grins like a child as warm blood flows over his digits
Setting down the tools of his trade
He takes a moment to admire his handiwork
The body before him lies ravaged
Professionally massacred, filleted is his trophy ****
Having fully enjoyed this beautiful sight
He reaches down gripping tightly onto two ***** of skin
By either side of the shoulders his fingers burrow under flesh
He begins to peel away
Within minutes the body is bare
On the counter lies nothing but muscle and bones
Tendons, sinew, organs that will never again function
Like a cadaver to be donated for medical research
He holds the hollow man up to the light for a better look
A perfect skin suit, warm, tanned, tinged in red
Cuddling it as a toddler might carry his blankey for comfort
He walks to the room adjacent the kitchen
At the tug of a blood soaked hand
The washing machines door swings open
Gingerly he sets the skin inside
Adding just a dash of fabric softener for good measure
He shuts the door and starts the cycle
Back to the kitchen he drudges
Washing the blood from his hands, his arms
Cleaning his knife, polishing the blade until it gleams in the light
Leaving the corpse where it lies he sits patiently and waits
As the wash is finished he removes the suit from the machine
Now clean, dripping, wet, marker gone
He places it in the dryer
Turning the **** to low heat, careful not to shrink his new outfit
He sets the dial to permanent press and pushes start
Part #1; see "The Apology" for Part #2. http://hellopoetry.com/poem/the-apology-pt-2/
 Feb 2014 Squanto
AJ
Caramel
 Feb 2014 Squanto
AJ
My fingertips
Carry
A heavy weight.
 Feb 2014 Squanto
AJ
Stupid white girl.
We are not allowed to do anything.
We're prim and proper, white girls.
We are not allowed to fight back.
Put us in our place, white girls.
We are not allowed real work.
We still want our twenty three cents back.

The child of fair skin and blue eyes.
But with all my female privilege,
Came a nasty stamp on my body.
Like a watermark.
FEMALE.
I have heard that when a woman looks in the mirror, she sees a woman.
But when a man looks in the mirror, he sees a human.

Even with that watermark, our pale skin is used as a canvas.
And everyone else has been handed the tools to color in our curves.
Covering us in blue and black and purple and red.
Redrawing our minds so they cannot process the discrimination,
Painting over our tears so our feelings can be buried,
Manufacturing open legs when you want them,
Closed when you don't.
Erasing the lips we use to speak out,
Erasing the eyes we use to see all of this.

You think just because you held the brush,
Just because you created this monstrosity of a "masterpiece"
You get to claim ownership of this piece of artwork
That you blatantly disregard
Is my BODY.

The "fe" you tack onto "male"
Does not stand for Free Entry.
The "wo" you tack onto "man"
Does not stand for Wipe Out.

Women are barely able hold a pencil.
I was lucky to hold one long enough to draw myself
A conscience, a backbone, legs to stand on, and a mind.
We were only taught how to use the back end of that pencil
To erase our mouth and keep the secrets.
But these days the secrets are keeping themselves.

I will not be put in a glass case
You will not charge admission
To have people come and analyze me.
Buy me.
Give me value.
Categorize me.
Preserve me the way you created.

You are no artists.
You are vandals.
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