I see you in the grocery aisle
Your mouth is covered but
You smile at me with your eyes
You wait patiently at one end
Watching me.
Waiting for me?
Your eyes reach out to me
Caress me.
Even with the physical distance between us
I smile.
But can you tell?
Most of my face is covered
But I call out to you without a sound
Your eyes express your desire
My gloved hands grip my cart tightly
expressing wordlessly my yearning
I move towards you slowly but I dare not get close
I want to run to you, but Instead I walk away
As I walk, I hear your hello
It sounds strangely just like goodbye.

My face is perfectly symmetrical
My skin smooth. My smile perfect.
Life’s blemishes and frown lines instantly erased,
As if those life experiences that caused
my frown lines in the first place never happened.
Instead of frowns, I have bunny ears.
Cute, Childlike, Happy ears.
Because someone somewhere associated bunnies with ****
So I have **** bunny ears and a high pitched voice.
In my real voice you might be able to hear my pain
But the filtered voice only lets you hear the sunshine
All my flaws are airbrushed away
It’s like those extra pounds gained from stress eating never existed.
My hair is no longer messy from me pulling it in frustration,
With this filter not even one hair is out of place.
This filtered me is the only me I let you see
My tag line says “I woke up like this” smiley face.
Isn’t this the version of me that you prefer?

That thorn in my side.
Painful, big, visible, obvious
No matter how much I try
I can’t seem to get rid of it.

It hangs on.
Sticking me. Breaking my skin.
Torturing me and making me bleed.
Spilling out my weakness.
I can’t get it out.

I struggle to make
my thorn smaller.
Reduce it to a rose thorn.
Still sharp, but less scary.
outshined by the rose’s beauty.

But then, when I let my guard down
the thorn gets bigger,
Stronger.
Angry that it was overlooked
By that beautiful rose.

It turns into a porcupine thorn.
Takes over. Seems to multiply
so when people see me,
all they see is my thorn.
They call me prickly,
Defining me by my thorn.
Naming me by my weakness.

I fight the thorn,
but that thorn has roots.
Hard, rigid extensions
that fight back
Trying to take root in my insides.

But I stay in the struggle,
Stay in the fight.
Reaching for the rose
Trying to banish that porcupine.

Although it’s painful,
My thorn is part of my journey
And maybe one day
It will just be part of my testimony.

Smooth, strong, deep, therapeutic.
Hands playing on my skin like a virtuoso pianist.
Stroking, kneading, pressing.

With every stroke, his hands melt my stress.
Sooth my pains, physical and mental.
My anxiety fades. My mind rests.
Stroking, kneading, pressing.

His hands are sensual.
His eyes are closed, so his hands move on their own.
No distractions. Just natural. Instinctive.
Stroking, kneading, pressing.

I’m open and vulnerable, self conscious.
But his hands even sooth my flaws, and imperfections.
Press against places I keep covered.
Unflattering angles I would rather keep hidden,
But somehow his hands seem to find beauty even in that.
Stroking, kneading, pressing.

Dang....the hour is up.