For a moment, let's reset our society

VIctoria Secret Models are chubbier,
shorter than 5ft.
and don't have those golden locks with shimmering eyes
nor the perfect skin nor smiles

Yellow and crooked teeth are to be admired upon
chapped lips and no make up is the ideal beauty

McDonald's sells the most exquisite burgers
while Fogo De Chao is frowned upon

Harvard and those Ivy Leagues are
safety schools
and the community colleges have
an impossible admission of 70%
UNBELIEVABLE, RIGHT??

that gardeners and janitors were respected
as the kings of the world
and government and the congress are
to be denied, devalued, and made fun of.

now open your eyes
and hear the cars
and turn on the tv
and smell everything

which one would  you rather prefer???

Today was the first time I saw my grandfather since his passing.
He had a chubbier face
and was behind the wheel of a red Toyota Camry
next to a woman who wasn't my grandmother.  
Becca was in the passenger seat beside me.  
She didn't see my knuckles turn white
as I gripped the steering wheel tighter.  
Then the light told me I could go.  
She didn't see tears fall as I accelarated into the intersection
when all I wanted to do was turn around follow
the man who wasn't my grandpa
in a car that wasn't his
to a house I'd never seen before
and wouldn't miss when I left.

I was sitting at the Costa Café located in Indiranagar 12th Main road. To my right was the lane, sporadically disturbed by the wagons of sophisticated residents in the area. A Hollywood music puffed to the left of my ambience that comprised the café au lait hued interior, perfectly contrasted by the white Royal Genware Porcelain cutleries. It was a Sunday afternoon. The glass walls of the café were stained by the transparent drizzles of rain. I noticed my faded reflection on the glass wall. The eyes in the reflection held no sparkle. It was a pale face of a 32 year old adult, who has surrendered himself to Norns. Beards on the face was a sign of mental otiose. A good designation flavored with a terrific Pay Scale over the norms has filled the life with luxury. What more I need! I blinked. Tears occupied my vision to lubricate my eyes dried out of staring for long….
She entered into the Café with meek steps. She was wearing a bottle-green colored Patiala suit. Her head and upper body was veiled under a red Kashmiri stole. The veil was perhaps put on as a shelter against the drizzle. She seated opposite my position, three tables to my left. She slung her hand bag away on the opposite chair, removed the veil and threw it on the bag.

I skipped a heartbeat. I saw her after 11 cruel years. She looked fairer and chubbier. Her hair had grown longer; she managed to collect them into a neat plait, falling along her right shoulder touching her lap as she sat on the chair. A waiter came at her service. She bothered not to look at the menu and ordered a large Latte with a quick rise and drop of her eyes at the waiter. A streak of blue mascara made her eyes more stunning. However, those eyes have lost that magical grace. I remember her obsession for eye makeup. She used to imitate every step mentioned by the beauticians on YouTube. She had a rich collection of eyeliner, mascara, eye shadows and what not.  Her concentration during eye makeup was firm. When I had asked her why she put so much make up on eyes despite being a blessed beauty, she had always replied that the color on her eyes proves her chirpy soul of having me as her partner. Every time when she had cried in my arms after a storm of misunderstandings between us, she had pulled my shirt to bury her face within the hug, and ended up smudging her eye makeup over my shirt chest. She had conceded the smudging as the decay of her soul due to misunderstanding. I had always laughed at her childish theories and underestimated it for being absurd. Now that she had left my life, I realized she was never immature. Each small act of love and care for me was priceless. Her love theories held a deeper meaning that always hued her soul bright. But I was blind. I remained blindfolded by the silky rich aims. Neither could I see deep into her mesmerizing eyes, nor could I shelter inside her majestic heart. It was already very late. Her soul has already decayed along with the colors of her eyes. All that was left behind was a feeble streak of fate.

The waiter appeared to serve her order. This time she thanked him with raised eyes and a forced smile. She added some sugar to the coffee, stirred it and then cupped her palms around the coffee cup to soak in some warmth. I spotted a diamond ring in her left ring finger. A spark of reality exploded inside my core. To re-confirm, I looked at her hair parting on the forehead.  There was a small vermilion mark. She was married.

Suddenly the Hollywood music at the background became loud. I realized the café was crowded enough. The drizzles of rain had stopped and the sky was clear. I could see her reflection on the glass wall to my right. A long life has passed. I failed to catch hold of the most beautiful gift ever. The eminence of huge money earned is limited only to the conspicuous objects. I have already lost the angelic affection of the most beautiful girl I could ever imagine. A vacant chair opposite to me proved the destitution of my soul. Neither have I owned an engagement ring, nor a friend to lend an ear to listen to my mental adversity.  The greed to eat money has left me diseased. What do I have? I blinked. Tears occupied my vision to lubricate my eyes guilty of every moment ridiculed for disparaging the people who selflessly loved me.

Wow your pretty why would you ever call yourself ugly?
Ill finally tell you what I’ve been trying to scream for years.
Was I pretty when I had ******* glasses, braces to fix my crocked teeth?
Was I pretty when you made fun of my freckles or when you said my waist was too big and my four-head looked like a five head.
Well now my glasses are contacts, my teeth are straight, my four head is contoured to make it seem small, my freckles are unseen under my make-up and my waist is tinnier from working out every single day.
Does the makeup that smudges when I cry myself to sleep because no boy will find me good enough make me pretty?
Am I pretty now because my clothes are so tight they could fit a sixth grader.
Or are my legs still too big, my waist still not skinny enough no matter how many hours I work out or how many miles I run.
“Maybe if you worked out more you would be skinnier” they said.
Wear that short dress but be careful just because you are pretty now doesn’t mean you get to be a ****.
They even make fun of my name. A name my loving mother gave me
“What kind of name is Anna it’s the most average white girl name ever”
Nothing is ever good enough something about me is always wrong.
Maybe I liked it better when I was chubbier and had glasses and braces because the worst people would have called me is ugly and fat.
So am I pretty now that I have trouble writing a poem that I can call myself pretty. Because no matter what the hurtful words you once put in my head are glued to my eyelids every time I look in the mirror. The words swirling around in the mirror as I try to achieve your version of perfection. What is wrong with my version?
So now I’m pretty but I’m broken and no boy like a broken girl. No one likes a broken girl who they have to help pick you pick up the pieces.
So, what’s the point of wearing these jeans that make it hard it to breath but I must wear them to show of my figure. My **** must be big, my ***** pushed up to my ears and my waist shoved into my pants.
But it doesn’t matter if I cry when they still call me names, ****, ***, fake, and still no matter what I do to try and meet their expectations, ugly.
At least I have make up to cover up my mascara tears.

Aside from the black nail polish,
My own personal act of rebellion,
I see my father's hands.

I have my mami's nose,
and eyes,
and lip shape,
and even her forehead.

We have the same forehead,
But my hands,
When I see them I see my father's hands.

Maybe I see them in an attempt,
to portray an image of his existence,
To acknowledge that he actually exists
even though he hasn't been by my side

My hands are darker than my mother's
They are slightly chubbier,
Even the darker little hairs that decorate them,
They do not look like hers at all,
so naturally, they have to look like his.

I am more reminded of him when I grip them
So tightly I almost cut the flow of blood.
So strongly the blood rushed to blush the tips of my fingers

The rage. The anger. The reminder that I am your daughter
That I carry your last name
That I am still and Forever will be,
a part of you
and you a part of me

I did not choose that.
I did not choose the anger or the love

When I have you in front of me,
I will take these, my hands
that look like yours
grip them tighter than ever before
with determination in my eyes,
aim and...

I learned how to box in an attempt,
to shape these hands to be less like you
Fighting hands, unlike yours
Strong hands, much different to yours
Passionate hands, contrary to YOU

I wear the black nail polish, to remind me and you
That these hands are yours,
tainted by the dark melody of the last kiss you gave me
Before you let me walk away.

I wear these hands masked by power,
but deep down a reminder that I am a woman,
Despite my hands being like yours.
A reminder that had you stayed,
I would probably not have the education I now have.

I look down at my hands and see yours.
Despite the black nail polish, they look like yours.
With a layer of love, willing to forgive and love
But unwilling to Forget!

You look like a koala bear.
Your eyes is blinking like a water.
The way you eat, your cheeks gets chubbier.
The way you smile, it's getting bigger.

Be good to me and I will be good too.
If you are scared, I will be right here for you.
Staying by your side is all I can do.
Sorry if I keep sticking with you.

I can't help myself thinking about you.
I can't help myself secretly looking at you.
I can't help myself missing you.
And I can't help myself falling in love with you.

Everyday..
Every night..
Always..

I hope you appreciate this fragile heart of mine.
Please take care of it like a dime.
Because it will end like a straight line.
But thank you for the good time.

Sometimes, our hearts will be dark.
If you light it up, there will be a spark.
In our hearts, someone will leave a mark.
It may be scream like a dog's bark.

Four leaf clover is love.
So hard to find but lucky to have.
It may feel flying like a dove,
It may feel like heavens above.

Dear lover,
I know this is trash,
Just like the notes I've written and you tore,
Just like the letters I send and you trample,
Like the texts I leave and you chuckle,
Baby I know, I wasn't the best lover,
I thought grass was greener,
But did I leave?No, not a step away,
And when you were miles away,
I always chose to hang on a little longer,
Unawares I was signaled to go,
But painfully longing to abide,
And when I tried to shun the turn,
You said I was strong and I could take it.

Baby you don't know how much I curse,
Baby you don't know how much I soak in the dark,
Baby you don't know how broken my pieces are,
Baby you don't know what I've had to go through,
Baby, how you'd hurt me but I'd forgive you every second,
But Baby, you wouldn't want to forgive me too,
And baby I know, you wouldn't want to listen, if I called to say.

Baby I know I'm not Mona Lisa with the prettiest smile,
Baby I know, I'm not the Pope with the cleanest hands,
Baby I know, I don't have the Nightcore eyes and voice,
Baby I know, you'd cast me aside and choose me last,
But baby, can I be your baby if I grow a little more prettier?
But baby could you forgive me, if I had more chubbier cheeks?
And Baby, how if I had a Cinderella body?
But baby, now I know, you'll trash me like forever,
Baby I know, you might tear this like my heart,
Baby I know, the blood and tears sticked together in this page...
Baby I heard, they're conspiring to carry me far and so away,
Baby I know, you'll find this after I'm gone and all lost,
But Baby I know, you might find some letters faded like I,
And baby you might wanna trash it again.

i remember the day i looked myself in the mirror
and i was content with how i looked
despite looking chubbier
for the first time.
there had been fireworks for the past couple days,
and i really liked them.
my mind was on a journey somewhere nice,
but a few hours later i was violated.
it feels like the universe doesn't want me to love myself
or to feel secure