Cold tile, legs Indian style,
Two hands holding one head
as I reflect on all the ways I
wish I could change myself.

Thick thighs that have always touched;
Stretch marks that extend longer than
my ambition;
An Italian *** that threatens to take over
my five foot of frame.

And then one night she calls me and says "Sis, I wish I could be a model like you…"
And stomach twists and falls in my gut,
as I struggle to find the words to tell her she's perfect just as she is.

Stumbling speech
matched with an unfiltered tongue.
A laugh that will break eardrums and hard hearts.
She says "Sis, maybe one day you can teach me
to read so I can go to college,"
while she tightens the Velcro that holds her
21 year old feet still,
because she never quite understood
where the bunny went.

See she’s what the doctors calls mentally *******;
genetically martyred to die in a society that tells her
she's imperfect.

And now here she is,
my sister, my reflection on
cold tile with legs Indian style;
Her two hands holding one head,
Reflecting on all the ways
she wishes could change herself
to be pretty normal like me...

And I ask myself,  what have I taught her?

Hmm, let me see… Who should I be today?
The person other people think I am
or maybe someone they would like to see.
I could attempt to stand out in a crowd,
easy though it would be to just blend in.
What if I flip a coin to choose between
the good, bad, dark, strong, and weak parts of me.
Of course, I could always just be myself
although, most days, I don’t know who that is.

They tell us to break the mold,
but sometimes the mold is too big to begin with.

Think outside of the box, they say,
expecting us to know how unique we must be to do so.

They tell us that the sky is the limit,
and then say to push the limits.

Us teenagers,
we're supposed to be invincible.
Right?

Plastered everywhere are the words,
"You must love yourself before anyone else can love you."

And that's why we're doomed.

Because self-loathing has poisoned all of us,
and for some,
that's what keeps them trying so hard to fit the mold.

Sometimes "the box" is the safest place to curl up and cry in.

Our insecurities are what keep us grounded,
unable to reach the stars.

So thank you,
society.
Because the standards you have set are bigger than the standards you have actually set.

And that's why we're doomed.

I am spectacularly
Ignorant. I cannot understand anything
Complex, not to mention intelligent.
Somehow, I am miserable at
Every new thing I attempt, I
Fail at the same things I watch my peers
Excel at.
Over the past few years,
I have found that I am worth
Absolutely nothing. I hate myself
More than I ever thought was possible.
I really don't think
I'm going to be okay.

He knew that she was perfect,
And he told her that her imperfections only added to her beauty,
But through some twisted witchcraft
She did not believe him.

She couldn't see the beauty that lay inside.
No matter how hard she looked in the mirror,
It only showed her the exterior of her body.
She thought that she couldn't see anything else because
There wasn't anything on the inside
That was worth seeing.

She hated what was inside of her
Because nobody else could see it
As clearly as she could.
They were unable to see
The hatred, the anger and the lies
She had woven to protect herself.

He thought he knew what she was,
But everything he saw
Was the lie she wanted others to see.
She hated herself and she wished
That he would hate her too.

But he knew that deep down,
She knew she was beautiful
And that her core was not rotten.
Despite what she thought of herself,
He still believed in her.

She thought nobody could see through her and that if they did,
They would hate who she really was.

Even though nobody else could see through her,
He could,
And even though nobody else would love her for who she really was,
He did.

My friend Ana has many followers.
She feeds us promises and fills our dreams
when we cannot, will not, sate the cries
of our bodies because those are easy to hush
during the din of day, but not in the void,
night when

my friend Ana comes through a glowing
screen in the form of thigh gaps, community forum posts,
and calorie counting apps where our intake dwindles,
anticipating the moment we take in the waist of  our skirts
so maybe that boy with the blue-jean eyes notices
our size 0 because on a scale of 1 to 10, we don’t fit.

My friend Ana remains forever in our minds,
teaching us to listen to our inner strength as muscle tone
ebbs, seething when we reach for some bread, but loving
the sweat-drenched skin as we run nowhere on a treadmill that we believe leads to a salvation as perfect as the symmetry of ribs—

of cheekbones that jut out from a thin and beautiful face
which smiles at muted murmurs and falls as I look
in the mirror at bodies shaped so divine, you might see
premature grace because
Ana never dies.

Half the time
The mirror smiles at me
And the other half
Breaks because of me
Torn between the complexities of me

Imperfection,
Why should such a cruel word exist?

Beautiful,
Why should a word so magnificent be spoken so seldomly?

Why should I,
As a woman compare and contrast?


Why should it matter what size certain body parts are or are not?

Is the heart, the soul, not all you need?

How could you see me?
I was invisible.

How could you hear me?
I was silent

How could you feel me?
I was not present

And yet you did.
Thank you
You gave me a voice
A song
My voice.

hot baths, breakdowns, too close, too loud. lost, alone, confused, worthless. self-image, self-confidence, self-love. questions. "What do you want to be when you're older?" "Where are you going to college?" "How are your grades?"
How are my grades? How am I! I'm breaking down every night, crying in the shower, trashing the organized file cabinet of my mind, scouring every inch of my consciousness trying to find out who I am. Emotionally unstable. Lost. Mentally unstable. Lost.
Ask me how I am.

So now I admit defeat, when all my fantasies which turned me into a flailing solitary fanatic have turned down every reality once thought possible. Facing my own pain it’s the pages of easily written paper keeping me company. I’d like to destroy the only thing that is left of me and I never can grasp: love.

All the words in my head have ties to more things reaching beyond my brain. But all that is holding me down to the ground is what I always knew as life. The broken parts, shards of earthenware pots, and the earth that once gave birth to me. I died and part of the universe lived on. So now, this heart, which feels vacated. I feel most of all by itself.
Who do I know to be an actual true me? Is it the reflected echo of whomever sees and hears me? Who had ever loved a real me? Can they know if I don’t? I don’t know...

So I sing like the sirens that never heard their own call and knew how to fall for it. They never saw their sailors drown, so tragic to see their bodies floating in the water down the shore line. I always want the ones I can’t find. Since they can’t find me when there is nothing to be found. When do I finally leave this underwater labyrinth? To be released from my confounding prison I simply need to swim upwards but heavy water keeps me in my place.

No one has ever really known me. So I go down to my own loneliness again, once more descend, turning to the blackened sea crashing up an abandoned beach haunted by my lovers ‘corpses. No way out but up this cliff that is my treacherous heart. My siren song has led me to my own demise. It’s time to admit being shipwrecked.
My head ache turns me to broken black again, once more, hoping no more. What will take away the breathing room in this persistent solitude? It had never been so complete to let me rise from my body of memories, reborn. (Re)production lasts only if there is a past to overflow from.

As my head tears itself apart when my eyes witness loving kindness with souls bearing a sweet careless caress, it is this wait to let my long unfulfilled desires die out which is the excruciating part of my empty story. No one is ever together if they can’t be solitary, two reflections merged into one consciousness but I deny mostly myself. So ever can I let my heart break not for what I don’t have but for whom I know lies in the corner, forgotten which is me, sobbing from deep dark past secrets nobody cared to hear, from her, from someone who I had once been? I am not [me] and it takes a long time to get used to a dark with no glimmer of light. My illuminating sparks are smothered in grief.

© November 22nd 2014