The year you were born
was the year I turned 6,
leaving my second home
to a place where I didn't exist.
It was the first time
I remember being scared,
of a knock on the door
to a dark street corner,
not a voice to properly
enunciate my fears,
hands trembling,
I was naught a writer then,
just a poetic mind
inable, hands not stable,
to open doors to
concrete streets,
the gentle ****** or
the careful cat,
daddy loves you,
under my breath.
He only had time to run,
from place to place,
the most logical option,
for his career,
but not his young girl.
The world's forgotten friend,
having not a voice,
to say hi at the door,
or accept the house-warming gift
from the neighbor girl.
Dear Fish the Pig,
The year you turned 6,
I hit puberty.
Grew tusks,
that kept inching,
toward a person
hidden in the swamp,
watching beneath reeds
the blondes and skinnies
courting Hercules.
An ugly pink pig,
jealous of the swans
gliding across water
drowning my squeals for approval,
left behind from highs and *** and flight.
Snarling away the bugs,
company that could have been friends,
retreating to being busy,
terrified of high school eyes
that adjust to the darkness,
and call isolation insecurity.
No worse a disease.
Dear Fish the Pig,
The year you hit puberty,
I lost my virginity,
my naked body
a prime scientific diamond
to the boyfriend who
just wanted to love me.
Two heads rested upon his bed,
vocal chords distilled,
when I replied "love you too,"
and felt hollow inside.
His mirror cracked
with my scraggly hair and fat.
I was a treadmill mess
with no time to stretch.
My secret of the weighted, edible variety.
How could he be skinnier than me?
So I traded being a pig
for the femme version al him,
and gleefully changed
my nickname from stocky
to skinny-Minnie,
until I could wear his pants baggy.
Dear Fish the Pig,
two years from now
you will be 19.
Let me remind you of something
from someone who is 23
and is still uncomfortable with her body:
Don't be.
To be is a simple mistake
with a complicated result,
Because
A haute girl fainting in university,
isn't martyrdom for beauty.
It is stupidity.
Purging friends for a toilet,
isn't just punny.
It is insanity.
Dear Fish the Pig,
Don't turn your fantasy
into my nightmare.
Don't sign the loneliness
that wastes me.
Don't bury yourself in dust —
it doesn't feel as good as the dirt,
knowing the roots,
and working through their kinks.
Dear Fish the Pig,
I admire your honesty.
Your struggles
make for great poetry.
But idolizing a girl with
skin pale as white roses
also made a good story.
Longing is beautiful
with the promise
of a happy ending.
But depression
sporn from jealousy
isn't so pretty.
Dear Fish the Pig,
wear your tattered clothing,
blow my mind
with beautiful melancholy,
sit in that obscure place to reflect,
but never forget,
your life doesn't have to be an indie movie.
Weave words into beautiful tapestries,
but when you tire of their decor,
go out into the world empty.
Tint white walls joyfully.
Don't re-write my history.
