You are just a prop in her life, Cody.
You are there to help her work through things.

That's great; one problem.
I am not a dishrag.

I do not serve as a free form of therapy.
I am not just a service to help girls learn about themselves.

I have feelings.
I get attached.
I want reciprocation.
I want affection.

Sometimes I'm the one who needs help.
Sometimes I am not just satisfied with knowing I helped.

I am not your valet.
I am not your counselor.
I am not your validation on demand.

I cannot even fathom why you think can just take.
It's because I can't give, Cody.
If you can't give, why do you think it's ok to take?

I will not always be ok.
I won't always get over it.
I won't just understand why you can't be there for me.

I am not just a rock to be your stability.
I am not just a blanket to give you comfort.

I am not a flipping dishrag.

Pretty Princess, primped in pink, never really stops to think about the idiocy she spews on a daily basis.  The dog cowers in the corner, afraid to be faced with her scarily unchaste, omniscient hands.  She certainly possesses a vast knowledge of the canine race QUICK, before the vet arrives, act in haste, lest the dog be victim to her knowledgeless, black-hold gaze!

Pretty Princess, never faulting, ever daunting, continues the endless flaunting of her limitless skill.  Planar geometry and collegiate calc are no problem for the persistent resident Isaac Newton, who scribbles phony calculations and bogus numerations on a Hello Kitty scratch pad.

Pretty Princess works by the candlelight of her over-bright, tower-tall, double-wide lamp and paces across her pink and purple flower-*** rug as she fantasizes about the greasy local pint-size **** who’s oh-so dreamy in his Nike cut-off dishrag.  From her desk, she scrawls the inane on a beat up, college ruled, blue-green, hand-painted notebook, for all to see, but none to name.

Pretty Princess is unstoppable, tearing through the grocery aisle where Earl Grey and Einstein fall into place betwixt bacon, sausage, and salmon paste, and then for show, she takes the liberty of becoming the resident nutritionist, which here means “amateur ‘botchulist’”, as she tells us what we’re doing wrong.

Pretty Princess keeps a hidden diary wherein are written all her fiery rants and new to-hit lists, saving space for all the boys she wants to kiss and yes, even room a tear stain or six BUT, she claims, it doesn’t exist.

Pretty Princess is afraid of her secrets, afraid of leaking them to the outside world where that entire girl would become just another whirl in the machine of elementary girls’ gossip.  That unrelenting pack of wolfish half-wit rug-rats, teeth bared and armed with magic hands, would seize the Princess in their dastardly plans BUT, they say, it’s only for a single day that Pretty Princess is robbed of her dramatic time at play.

Pretty Princess is unheard outside her environment, her voice never reaches above the casement of the teacher’s oblivious predicament because she’s completely preoccupied with the class’s rampant evil stride of impending doom.  The classroom bully sits, high atop his throne, and from his face is evil shown only to those who know how to see it.

Pretty Princess knows how to see it.

Pretty Princess comes home crying more often than not, misunderstood by her snotty, hot-headed teacher or “witchess”, and storms to her room in haste, leaving Mother to pick up the pace, lest the wrath of a pre-teen girl blow up in her face BUT, much to her disbelief and in some sense a strange relief, the truth comes out.

Pretty Princess just wants to be heard.

She tells him this better be the last one--
the last first love poem he'll write.
The title, she says, needs to be brief,
something any lover can relate to.
Do you want me to leave the room
while you write it?

No.

With one step she's no longer in the
living room, she's in the middle of the
apartment kitchen. There are two bowls,
two spoons in the sink. The bellowing heater
acts as background, smoothing the space
with its hum. She squeezes a drop of soap
into each bowl. Fills both with hot water.

Any lover needs to be able to relate, she says,
but make sure you set it somewhere romantic--
not Paris, Rome, or anything like that--but
next to a body of water. There should be
birds. Clouds and rain. Not sunshine. Don't
you think?

He thinks.

She works the bowls over with a dishrag.
Dinner, breakfast--whatever you want to call it--was good, she says.

Good.

She dries the bowls, places them in the cabinet.
Have you written a line yet?

Yes.

Can I read it?

Not yet.

When I wake up?

When you wake up.

With a hand to each side of his face,
she denotes the spots he missed shaving
with her index fingers. Here, she says.
Here. Here.

The lines run from the corners of his eyes
as he smiles. Now she marks these.
She kisses him; she doesn't say, I love you.
Not yet.

Wake me up before you go to work, okay?

Okay.

With one step she's in the bedroom.
The bed's a couch.
She pulls the quilt up to her chin.
Her body curls.
She says, Hang out with me in
my dreams.

Wouldn't miss it.

Good morning.

Good morning.

A few minutes later her breath
goes steady, falling in line with
the heater.

The sun starts seeping in through
the blinds. The loose strands of
her hair become gold. He draws
the curtains so the light does not
wake her. She, he types.

In an apartment where once was one--
one toothbrush, one set of sneakers
by the door--now there are two.
Everything paired off and content in
its pairing.

Is a woman, he types. He hits the delete key once.
Then he types N again.

Her makeup bag is on the dining table.
Islands of stray powder dot the bag.
Her brush is on the coffee table
next to the couch. Countless
numbers of hairpins are embedded in the carpet.

I can't make it in today, he says into the receiver.
Yeah, not feeling too good. Thank you, sir. Will do.
Alright. Yeah, you too.


When he presses in beside her, she says, I've been awake
the whole time.

Have not.

Have too. Did you finish it?

Yes.

Can I read it?

After you actually get some sleep.

What'd you call it?

Is a Woman.

I like that.

America-- you’re about as inspiring as vanilla ice cream puddled in the summer sun
a damp dishrag, america, you can’t clean up the mess you are.
Your subjects, or should I say, Objects--
your agency bereft gdp drones--
they hanker, they brood
like a syst; they’re ****** vacuoles: private, malignant, caverns of capital
your pride? starving children, dying cities?
it’s a grand ole’ flag, you pathetic ****.
How about considering this:
The people, inside your prisons?
They’re free.
The people outside?
minions, hackneyed excuse for existence, and pestilence.
the ones who know oppression are free, and the ones oppressing do not know.
that’s why I love you, America.
You are what humanity needs; a slow, painful drain on our existence.
Consciousness slowly being ignited and swallowed, only to be ******* out and flushed away.
You, america, are a popcorn bag popping in the microwave, left on for too long.
You can’t expand any further, and you taste like cancer.
America, you are beautiful, and the death you bring tastes like lime flavored popsicles
that we lick to take away the taste of reality.
Your society is a cattle car, for the mind, and your messages burn the body
when it gets there.

Too much of one worry is our buckled knees
dragging
the question to the fountain to make it drink. I’ll tell you the right
and proper Why I had to stifle
my cigarette break before my wrists broke
before my wet-eyed babbling witnessed your last constellation --
My last star
The star that bore the envelope between Doubts and Wisdom.
And Mourning -- that tossed bag on the vagabond's back.
I'll wait until the morning breaks.
I'll stake my flattery on the flyman's ****.
We'll wring that excuse "We were young"
until the dishrag shrivels moreso than
the letter on the fire.
Stick-figured promises -- know why you're here.

I wrote it on the back of my hand one day, I told you that I needed you – you wiped the smile off my face with your thumb, like I had smudged the words right out of my mouth. You taught me invaluable lessons I am sure never to forget, I was schooled by you, in ways I never really understood. I was a child, innocent by the very lapels on which you grew me up. Dragged me up, scuffed my shoes at the front and back. Untied my bra strap with your little finger and told me, listen here, love, I know exactly what I am doing. Made me believe in you, you did. Made me fall for every word. Made me fall for every whisper of love. Tenderly I was hooked by you.

You were the machine of my creation. Your greatest ever work of art. You sculpted my very inner being, tied me to my soul with burnt fingers and made me believe I was worth nothing more than ****. Your purpose was excellent. Completely fooled I was, your succinct underhand ways grievously ruined my sight. No longer could I see reality, living in world prepared for, cooked up and served by you. I lost a lot of blood in those first few years, a lot of good stock died. My passion became my greatest detriment, for should I talk you would take the words from my mouth and mark them in the air; deconstructed with a red pen you would make me realise my mistakes.

Thank you for all you have done. To me. For me. With me. My ear is no longer connected to your mouth. I can breeeeeathe without having to miss a step. All my love that I was proud to possess had been given away, but I was proud to have failed you, I was proud to weep under you, I was proud, to have loved you and not gotten away with it. I take full responsibility for all my tremendous actions, the ones I gave for you, laid down in honour for you, to wipe your pretty little feet all over the back of my head. I turned around to face you and slapped that face right off your mouth

Loved I was by you. Needed I was by you, to be, you. I wrote *******, on my ******* fingers and shoved them up your ****. Now you talk my language, now you wait for me to see you. Now you know I am no longer your dishrag, your teatowel or your muse. Got it back I did, got back my heat, my fury, and glory. Action packed with honour and fire, loving and loved. I learnt from you lessons which I shall never forget, I was schooled by you. Wanted to thank you, for I am no longer afraid, my sweet ******, of you and your heart. This is a glorious world, one which you will never feel.

I'm writing this because
I'll be gone in about two seconds.
I've decided I've had enough:
It was too much
or maybe too little.

I'm prepared to hang myself with the umbilical cord
of my self-hatred;
it was a diary entry, I think.
Oh, I'm dead anyway.

I am dead
has such a nice wring to it, doesn't it?
Feel like a ***** old dishrag,
used up and withered.
I wonder who will clean up my act.

I will lie in
a playful position,
akin to the Mannerists
or Fuseli
and the Renaissance men would look at me
like I'm crazy
for contorting smiles and stares
in a happy niche of browning lungs.

The punchline always ends with
your head in an oven.
I'd imagine it'd explode,
but it was not so.
It's sad to know he didn't love you,
but hey, we got poetry out of it, you know.
How is he?
Did you get your revenge?

You were beautiful,
but I was decades late.

i ate
my weight
ten times over ten

all green leaves.

now i encase
my fat body's face
in chrysalis
and
become, soupy,
torturous bliss
awaiting wing-ed
grace.

i awake
and crack the
membrane
crawl dishrag damp
out into summer's
kind light
and slowly
spread my wings.

please,
do not think
me vain.

but as i await
my wings to dry
and the glorious dust
to set.
i wonder at the ironic beauty,
that i, the fat catterpillar,
has become,so fine
and delicate,
an exquisite pallete upon
the canvas sky....

i take flight and find
freedom....
is a state mind
that flits upon the wind
and knows,
dfrom the beginning
             beauty is always
                            from within.

the part of a boy
that is most like
a dishrag
from the last
supper

the laundromat
where one
gives birth
to a ball
of sleep
or learns
to somersault

the handicap space
where on
your bike
you breathe…

the flower, the grave, the clown
car’s

driver / her nose

the call
to blood

despite being prescribed glycopyrrolate.

Though the angst riddled psyche of mine crafted youth, long since receded, ebbed in the past, infringement, impingement, and indecent wracking wrath of mental illness, that even as a middle aged mwm of lxiv bold faced roam min times, I can acclimatize, characterize, empathize, harmonize, italicize, and massage sympathy for prevailing physiological symptoms of  =>

Sweaty Palms
an ur...bane curse
worse than mega death
aggravating enough fo' me
to resort *** take or ****
speed dilly, and then not
getting ticked off watching Seth
Thomas - thee clock man
ewe fact chore er, and his hands
incrementally inch to...
regarding the aforementioned
relentless frenzied state.

No idea when the chronic onset
of sweaty palms first burst forth
upon thy totally tubular
handsome grooves that criss cross
the flat skin surface of my hands.

These lines called 'palmar flexion creases'
develop before birth.

This modern day bipedal hominid i.e. human
primate attests (like the average person)
two main lines across the palm,
but some have a single 'Simian crease'.

Profuse outpouring of perspiration
(as if Biblical Flood gates opened)
oft times directly related to adrenaline
coursing through every pore
sans the underside of my hands)
reflexively followed by swiping
said clamminess (in vein)
on clothing or woolen pocket size cloth
brought along with me everywhere I go
(cuz a lamb might not part ways with mother
Mary (of story book fame),
and this chap would shear lee feel sheepish
toting extremely cumbersome
to tote in the event this intimation
predicated on decades worth of experience,

when in the throes potential
such ordinary action strongly shaking,
grasping or holding hands took place
occurred sopping wet
clangorous human clapper,
(which frenzied trickling akin
to a vicious feedback loop),
my psyche feels under staccato
rat-a-tat siege from an
unknown invisible enemy),
the natural inclination
to withdraw myself
from bad company of others helps
stave of self-consciousness.

This avoidance of socialization
subsequently impedes any promotion
of a hankering viz genuine friendship,
employment and desiring carefree
bona fide affectionate
bonding with family of origin and/or
thy two precious progeny.

Understandable per the human reaction
to shrink away and recoil quickly
when pressed to touch
what feels like a wet noodle.

Ah…courtesy of Google
I now know sweaty palms sports
a dignified name known as palmar
Hyperhidrosis.

Here all along (meaning the majority
of my LXIV chronological
hash tagged buzz feeding
orbitz around the sun)
this plague constitutes
a bona fide medical condition.

Also reassuring to realize,
this generic guy need not
count himself alone
in the sopping wet wilderness re: this plague.

Such problematic health condition
impacts, comprises, and affects
one to two percent of the world’s population.

One Doctor Rafael Riesfeld
purportedly knuckles down
and makes hand over fist handsome income.

Will power alone seems
a dauntlessly futile endeavor
to rid oneself of this disruptive condition.

Try as one might to put a lockdown
on the propensity for sweat glands
(synonymous with the term eccrine)
are pack within sub surfaces of
hands, forehead and feet.

As linkedin to the sympathetic  
nervous system, the body electric
under stress activates said glands.

Profuse moisture dripping
like a faulty faucet
severely affected everyday activities
of my existence since a young adult.

Frustration to complete a simple task
such as opening a doorknob,
using the laptop, and even writing
concomitantly associated
with droplets of water soiling  
green sleeves to appear near saturated.

Without fail interpersonal ambitions
hi-jacked when wet as a dishrag hands
found me disinclined
to experience social rejection.

Though sprung from overactive
predisposition to anxiety, these secret
tory organs get exacerbated
with the honorable privilege of
being gifted with panic attacks,
offers little consolation.

your prospective clammy handy dandy
blues clues budding friend
where chocolate candy
melts in my hands not my mouth.

Discombobulation thunderously
torments, triumphs, tumults
courtesy deafening,
earsplitting, fracturing...
(think emotional bomb cyclone),
whereby unbearable mental anguish
rents psyche asunder

into bajillion pieces
singular recourse necessitates
invoking cerebral powers
to engender feeling
comfortably numb skull,
hence tried and true value accorded

transcendental meditation practice
offering absolutely zero choice
incumbent upon yours truly
to remedy cerebral chaos,
an unpleasant quotidian experience,
whenever yours truly

exits deep sleep
more potent and holistic solution
versus following pharmacological medications:
GLYCOPYRROLATE, TAB 2MG
CLOMIPRAMINE CAP 50MG
RISPERIDONE TAB 1MG
FLUOXETINE CAP 20MG
PRAZOSIN HCL CAP1MG
BUSPIRONE TAB 15MG
PRAMIPEXOLE TAB 1MG
CLONAZEPAM TAB 0.5MG
AMITIZA 24 MCG
(prescription laxative as needed)

the former closed eye process
to instill peace of mind,
plus elevating cosmic consciousness
allowing, enabling and providing

pronouncedly heightened awareness
acutely poignant insight
permeating throughout this body electric
calming, fanning, jumpstarting
vitally important discipline
in order for lifetime anxiety riddled

disabling affliction upends
potential to satiate existence
(oft times state of severe panic -
triggering chronic sweaty palms
extremely bothersome
physiological manifestation

induces suicidal ideation
i.e. opened arms death welcomed),
which onset regarding
ordinary agitated state
inchoate congenital malady
probably coalesced in utero

extremely intolerable,
especially incorporating socialization,
cuz no contra dance partner
(cue Irish jig and reel
musicians playing lively tunes)
favors grasping hand
analogous to wet dishrag.