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!!                                                     !!!!                                                      !!!
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                 !    
                       you make me feel like fifty exclamation points
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      !                             !!!                                               !                                                       !!!
!!                                        !                                
                      !!!                                                                           !

Of 7.3 million pages of stories and stories and stories
i know none
i know only my own
one page in the book of life
and i can only hope my page does not become so
damp with tears that i can no longer recognize
my own narrative

In the Webster dictionary beauty is defined as:
"The quality of being physically attractive"
And it never specifies what attractive is...who gets to decide it
but...
The screens, the magazines, they all scream
In high definition their definition of "beauty"

Beauty is itty bitty waists and walking twigs
negative spaces between legs that subtract another's value
if the gap is not there
It is lipstick and pale pink blush on rearranged faces
like children playing dress up
or a giant game of make-believe we are made to believe
that something is wrong with the way we look
And we have been directed well
the cruel criticism oozing out of over-injected lips
typed out with freshly manicured tips
"she has weird *****" "you have a weird nose" "lay off the cookies"
we read off the scripts, taking turns playing the villain and the victim
and there are no heroes here
There are no standing ovations, no thunderous claps await

Is anyone really watching?
                                                  Does anyone really see?

With pain hardened eyes we glare
we compare compare compare
ourselves to the models, the barbie dolls, the flawless magazines
our friends, our sisters, strangers on the street
and in our rooms before the mirror
our reflection the bearer of bad news
"you are not the fairest of them all"

will we ever be?
So much trial for so much error
we are worn thin and even so
even so we are told to lose a few
And we run, endlessly
in the hopes that we may be worth something


If only we would realize that beauty is a noun, a word created by man
between beaten and become
If we win this race we will have beaten the monster society has become
and see
that we are all worth more than words                      
                                                                ­ **we are flying off the page

OH!
What feeling compares to the warmth inside these bones
when I awake at Dawn to a still house,
and comfortable bustle awaits
There is none!
no other mornings compare to such
what with floating voices and metaphoric hugs
a sunday to its monday; disparate
and i'd make the hours stretch if i could
like a Dough prepared for
round laughter
to be enjoyed with glasses of
tall bliss
every Eye i meet glimmers
Glimmers!
with amity to spare
and the Earth around is brimming
Brimming!
with wonder I cannot describe to you
in words
an ode
to sundays worth living for

I saw you
On the train
You were immersed in the Sunday Times
Headline reading: Girl Missing for 17 years, Finally Found
I think to myself you are the dream come alive
This is the moment they promise in rom-coms
The outlandish answer to "how did you meet?"
I promise this time I will tap your striped-sweatered shoulder

Who am I kidding.
We were on a crowded bus, my hair
Plastered by the neighboring sweat
You
Nearly next to me, preoccupied, with your
Tiny little screen
As you stuff your hand in your low slung jeans
Pull out a stick of gum which you proceed to chew so loudly

Who am I kidding.
I gave you a sideways glance

"Jude," you said,
looking up at the clouds
the skin between your brows beginning to bend

"I don't think I can do forever"
and I tilted my head upwards, searching
the clouds for the shapes you saw

you walked

                       walked
                  
                                        walked
and the sun was so bright too bright
I couldn't see any of the **** clouds
but I could sure as hell see your shadow
growing longer larger as you walked away

that to me, that was the longest day

between the book stacks
(in the reading corner of the coffee shop)
i sipped a mug of chamomile and honey tea
(maybe too fast)
you heard the muttered ****
(pardon my french)
a napkin suddenly appeared
(it was between Dahl and Dickinson)
the smile was unintentional
(i meant to keep my frown, really)
how could i resist those dimples
(and your charming way around puns)
funny how things work out
(or don't)

You know that feeling
mind is reeling
you are everywhere but
here
faces, voices, eyes alluding
to the "one over there"
the one intruding
and you check your palms
sweaty lines
tell the signs
this is not your home
but you enter anyway
we all do

enter houses that feel like itchy wool sweaters
and it's uncomfortable and you're not even sure you like it
but you tell others you've never been better

often i've wondered
if pretty children
will wake up
under the sighs
of the weeping willow
and lay in marvel
under Her ancient beauty

or if they simply call it
by the name (tree)
and see it
by the sight
of green
or a tragic white