I've always known I am a beautiful person
that all I was doing was hiding behind a facade
of ugliness.

today, on my way to the market
I met a person I knew
but looking at his squinting eyes, I realized
that he didn't know me.
a handshake later
i laughed and he laughed
he joked about the price of the fishes
and I replied, saying "I could buy a fishing net
for half the price of that catfish".
and there in the market, in a barbershop
I cut my hair
down to the scalp
just like his.

coming back I met another person
her skin as fair as the insides of a bread
she joked about my almost bald head
and choking on laughter, I said
"bushy hair equals bushy nightmares".

But the most beautiful thing I did today?
*** sizzling
eyebrows sweating
tongue salivating
I cooked my favorite dish
served myself
and one of my friends
and we ate
facing the hot, afternoon sun.

Don't be like me
don't hide behind a facade.

I keep thinking about this summer—about starting a new school—and as soon as I do, I find myself internally monologuing and getting all high-schooly. It’s hoot, I know, but I can’t seem to help it.

‘You know,’ I think, as I’m eyeing myself in the bathroom mirror, ‘I’ll just turn up, looking good, feeling confident about myself and do whatever I want. I’ll go out, meet people and just be that vibe.

I was conflabing with Lisa last night, as we painted our toenails, “I’m a sufficient person, right? I asked rhetorically, “I can work out my thoughts alone, happily pass periods of solitude—nourishing my soul on YouTube.. Ooo, I like that color,” I said.
“You have personal power,” she assured me, as we admired her new nail polish color.

Growing up, my parents moved us, like luggage, about every two years. You can’t just be like, “This is actually crazy.” You’re forced to make a start, with a certain callousness of spirit, because uprooting your day-to-day domestic life, leaving friends, is hard. But I’d end up ok, I integrate quickly, as I love dropping into new cultures—people are so nuanced and clever.

So I've done this before, I have ‘lived experience,’ and I guess I can do it again. Still, I have this, what, adolescent nervousness, where my mind is spinning—even in dreams—planning my new first-day wardrobe, like a middle schooler, three months in advance (I’m a pre-crastinator).

In my heart, I know the source of my  untoward apprehension. Social precarity frightens me. I need other minds to rub up against and the constant stimulation and excitement of friends.

But I’m a 21 year old, grown woman—what’s wrong with me?
.
Songs for this:
These Days by Nico
find my way home MisterWives

I want to write
a poem
so here I am
doing it
even though
I have nothing
to write about
My head's
a bit fuzzy
I woke up
around 4 pm.

My girl wants to
read me a poem
she thinks I'll
like it.
"Not now, I'm writing."
"Ok."
and as the world
burns to ashes
outside
losing weight
becomes
just as realistic
as going outside
and running
without someone
chasing me with a knife.

I tap my belly
twice.
I've decided—
I'll keep Steven.
He's a good boy
who has tantrums
but a couple
farts here and there
usually settle him.

My joints and my ***
hurt when I get up
I'm getting too heavy
for my knees
and the chairs
aren't comfortable
enough.

This poem has
an thing to it
I don't know what
it feels good
and right
it feels like Steven.

I can hear
my father arguing
with my little sister
over homework
and that doesn't.

There is
a pressure plate
pressing on my head
and I can hear
my skull crack
the more they argue
but it never
pops it
it just presses
and presses
never landing
the killing blow.

the homework
questions begin
"Is freedom
good or bad?"
"Good."
"is censorship's
something
present in
dictatorship
or democracy?"
"I don't know
what censorship is."
I get up
from my bed
my joints
don't hurt
I grab the door ****
and shut my
bedroom door.

There's your answer.

everything’s complicated
everything’s a struggle
have you noticed?
it’s a psychological horror
is this feeling the ‘adult disillusionment’ I keep hearing about?

I mean, things work, if you sit on them like an egg—
if your mother things along and helicopter a result.
I mean, what do people do who don't have
my resources and sunny disposition?

I get America’s increasing paranoia but I think that it's *** backwards. Even if someone's were out to ‘get’ you, no one actually cares about doing their job anymore. There's just so little competence around, that the dysfunction feels intentional. And because you need something and you’re helpless, you can't help but feel targeted.

But I think I figured it out, so let me elucidate—they aren't giving YOU bad service, it isn't personal—everyone is getting bad service, two pieces of chicken in the box when you ordered three, five day delivery when you’re clearly paying for two, failure’s become routine—endemic.

My go-to phrase has become, “What’ll it cost?” (the answer, usually: twice as much) “Make it so,” I say, swiping something with my Apple Watch, and suddenly, everything works!
.
.
A song for this:
decide to be happy by MisterWives

I’m a bit of a sensualist.

First, let me emphasise emotional resonance,
there has to be an emotional base,
not just an appreciation of hotness.

Then, there’s a sense of longing and mystery—
that male unknowableness.

Don’t forget the hard strength of those rough male edges,
you know, the feeling that he’s kind of sculpted from
a marble that you just want to run your hands over.

And this jet-black hair, the curves and the spiky bits,
casual, careless, not fussy or particular,
and his warm, firm, implacable hands.
Oh, God. Gimmie some.

“Sensuality's connected to desire, ya?” I asked the room (Sunny and Lisa are there, studying).
“It sure is,” Sunny said, flippantly, “and you just need that hot boyfriend of yours to spank it out of you.”
“No,” I winced, “that’s not true.”
“Ooo! I love this song” Lisa said, as ‘try’ by BETWEEN FRIENDS began to play on our Echos.
.
.
Songs for this:
this is what falling in love feels like by JVKE
golden hour by JVKE
.
.
Our cast
Sunny, (suitemate) 21, a (pre-med) molecular, cellular, and developmental biology major, is a cowgirl from Nebraska (seriously, she has a quarter horse and barrel races). She’s an outspoken fem-facing ladies-lady.

Lisa, (roommate) 21, my bff and a high society princess, who grew up in a 50th floor Central Park South high-rise. A (pre-med) molecular biophysics and biochemistry major.

Your author, a simple, multinational, upper-crust, trust-fund baby from Athens, Georgia who's also a molecular biophysics and biochemistry major (pre-med).

After a cold grey winter
finally a beautiful warm sunny day
outside my window gazing
at all the beautiful people going for a walk
with their beautiful children
and beautiful dogs
and beautiful outfits
beautiful smiles

I got up to go out
and enjoy this beautiful day
opened my front door and a guard was there
he said get back inside sir
you are not allowed out
perplexed I asked why?
he replied, this is a beautiful day
its for beautiful people
you are Ugly sir
go inside and shut the door

I was a bit shocked
I guess new rules
So, I snuck out the back door
I wanted a coffee
at the coffee shop I walked in
the barista asked would you like a coffee or
a facelift?
What the hell?
she gave me a coffee and said go drink it outside
and put on a mask she yelled
no ugly people allowed in this shop sir

I was outside sipping my coffee, when
a beautiful blonde in high heels sauntered by
she glanced at me and screamed in shock
stumbled and fell through the coffee shop window
cutting her neck, bloods spurting everywhere
oh well I guess she is ugly too now
maybe not as much as me, but still

I have an electric car
no worries not a Tesla
even its a good one for Ugly people now
I just wanted away from the coffee shop fast
less  I get blamed for her death
the car door refused to open
I tried all the commands, nothing worked
the Cars voice system, said get in the trunk
I no long allow Ugly people in my seats
what choice did I have?
ugly has no choice I guess
in I got

feeling sad I decided to go the local cemetery
through the back seat hole I gave new directions
the car scoffed but off we went
the graveyard is always quiet and soothing
not this time
the earth seemed to shake a little
whispers heard all over
Hope thy don't bury him here!
He sure is ugly, we are more beautiful than that
wonder if it was a bus or truck that hit him
more and more these whispers I heard
even Ugly has ears
I ran back to the car

back in the trunk Ugly
I now had to sneak back into my house
in the backyard again I spotted a beautiful bunny
it stared at me with a frown and said
"Go away ugly one ewwwwww"
The beautiful rabbit then look over at a pretty duck
"we sure know who the Ugly Duckling is here now!"
they both had a good laugh

I never left my house
ever again.

I've never written a limerick.
Thinking of it makes me sick.
Better a sonnet
or a woman upon it.
Maybe, I'll just play with my ****.

Because plates are little and shallow
A buffet should provide a fellow
A bus tub instead,
One made out of bread,
With compartments for gravy and yellow.