It was my cousin's wedding reception, And I wore some creamy lacey dress That had to be approved of by my mother Before I shoved it in a bulging duffel bag to endure the Six hours of Dunkin Donuts bathroom stops And that weird stop-and-go traffic that makes me Feel like the color green.
As I stood at the brim of the dance floor, Trying to ignore the half-drunk staggering relatives of mine, I thought about whether it's Polite to pry your eight inch Torture-o-thon heels From your swollen toes Before anyone else bothers.
There was a boy on the other end of the disco lights, A silhouette that I knew to be slightly more muscular than the last time I'd seen it. Just about my age, or maybe eight months older if you had to ask him, Which I had about thirteen years earlier With some sand in the crotch of My Gymboree bathing suit.
I tried my best not to look over. The lights mostly blinded me, But I still wished to glance at him to see how straight his teeth were and how his acne had cleared up Because of Neutrogena SkinID Plus Or something.
I could tell that he was looking at me, At the too short lacey dress And my straight teeth And my peachy skin And I wanted so badly to peek over.
I wanted him to ask me to dance, Please oh God ask me to dance.
(Of course he didn't.) He was a shy kid, even at seventeen. He didn't say a word to me all night, Even though we'd gone to the beach together Since I was in Huggies.
And I tell them that It's okay that I'm not Because I know I'm not But I don't like being lied to
I know I'm not Because I can't let tears Drip down my cheeks As they shimmer in the dim light Of the movie credits
I sob until My face is red and damp and puffy And I'm clinging to your sleeve And just crying so uncontrollably That people sitting next to us In the dark theater Might glimpse over to see if maybe I have a reason to cry so hard.
Does shehave cancer? Is she missing a leg? Did her crack-addict mother die when she was an infant? Why is this bratty straight white blonde girl crying while watching Selma/Dallas Buyer's Club/The Help?
I have to brush my hair Instantly When I get out of the pool In the summer (Hopping from foot to foot of course Because the sun has baked the concrete) Because if I don't It becomes a half-curly knotted mess.
And if I don't braid it directly after that Then it dries In resemblance to a Yield Sign In a somewhat triangular form
And I'm chubby. Not fat. It would be better if I were fat. If I were fat then things would be Proportionalish But instead I'm just A 5'2 and 3/4" girl With DDs that no one wants Because "***** don't count when you're chubby" And baby fat that lounges on my stomach No matter how many kilometers I row.
My fingers are too small for my hands. My glasses make my eyes look huge. My lips are forever chapped. My cheeks are overly red. My eyes are too dark to be pretty And I know it. I know all of it.
I've lived in my body for longer than you have. So don't lie to me. Don't tell me that I'm cute Beautiful Or god forbid pretty Because I really Really Hate being lied to.
I sent it At three AM On one of those nights Where silence gets violent And I'm alone in my head.
I told you about the Tiny pink pills And how If I took eight I would sleep forever. I gushed that They were hidden Under the toothpaste slathered Countertop In my bathroom.
I told you I loved you But that You weren't enough to stop me anymore.
I did actually consider it. It was one of those nights. But at some point, As I laid on top of my comforter And shivered under the fan, I realized that You weren't going to wake up And convince me out of it.
I also thought About how my mom was A light sleeper. How the floorboards would sound like Orchestras And the cabinet Would be the symbals To her.
I fell asleep Numb, But naturally numb, And woke up wondering What you would say.
He touches My hair All the time, Plays with the Edges and Fragments, And sometimes reminds me that "I can braid, You know." Sometimes he does.
Sometimes he mimics me In History class From across the room, And he laughs at all my jokes, Even when they aren't funny, Just Stupid.
And occasionally, When I'm sitting in my little niche Between his desk And Ellie's, Right on the cold tile, He'll attach his forehead to mine And just look at me. Sometimes he'll whisper, "Nose," And point to it, And I just giggle And break the stare.
I don't even think he feels it, The wishing to always be near him, To have his fingers in my hair All the time, And for his laugh to be My soundtrack.
I don't think That when he stares into my eyes He wants to kiss me As bad As I want To kiss Him.