9/30 – Clothes and Makeup
It was taken as an insult when, at 12 or 13,
I first asked to choose my own clothes—
tee-shirts, three-quarter length and v-neck tops
from the juniors section instead of pants and sweater sets,
in the same colors, from the petite section.
I wanted to dress my age, more like the girls I knew
and less like our mothers.
Every shirt I put on, and the jeans I wanted that
hinted at the shape of my body under fabric,
was met with disapproval and made me self-conscious
But I still wanted them, wanted to feel like me,
even if I wasn’t sure who that was.
Navy blue eyeliner, thick mascara, blue eyeshadow.
Red lipstick and glitter to complete the look,
headed to the dance club.
Seventeen and wearing a white mini skirt,
a red, sparkly top, backless save for two strings,
one tied around my neck, the other around mid-back.
Platform shoes, and a gold necklace that said “Tiffany”
because that was the name I gave out as a safety measure.
My body was on display, much more than my mother
could ever have imagined when I asked for a v-neck shirt.
I felt sexy, hot, and maybe even mysterious on the dance floor.
Bleary-eyed the next day, from a late night, eyeliner and mascara
smudged with the shadows under my eyes, my smiling lips
told a friend about my night of dancing
about my feeling of liberation as I flashed skin
under the flashing mirror ball.
“There’s a thin line between fun and trashy,” she said.
Cold went down my spine and my muscles contracted,
trying to make myself smaller as I remembered hands
on my hips, on my bare back, the hand that brushed
my cheek as someone put their lips close to my ear
to whisper, “You’re so sexy.”
And I felt twelve years old again, when my father
in our living room, told me I was getting breasts,
when my mother, in the fitting room, disapproved
of the slight curves of my body.
Jeans and cardigans, my go-to dress; trying
not to draw attention, to look modest and neutral.
I just want to feel good in my body, and
because of thigh jiggle and belly roll,
and the women around me relentlessly counting
calories and tracking numbers on scales,
I’ve decided the only way to feel good is to stop
thinking of my body at all.
Numb it out, shut down the desire to be perceived
as having a body at all… my tattoos and my hair
are the only aspects I want people to notice…
and in ignoring my body so fully,
now sometimes I can’t feel my body at all.
I can’t believe my body is noticed at all,
unless for the purpose of deciding to dismiss
or reject me.
I don’t feel bad in my body anymore
I don’t feel good in my body, either.
Underneath it all, I wish someone wanted me
no matter what clothes or makeup
I choose or don’t choose to wear.
10/30 Writing
A shelf filled with notebooks, journals,
in various stages of sloppy handwriting.
My diaries, my stories, my words
filling pages and pages–
early journals with misspellings
short sentences with trite observations
and some letters written backwards.
Notes about the day–
today I went to church
today I ate cute cumbers
today i made cookie doe–
mixed in with monotonous rhymes about cats.
As long as I remember, I have processed my life
through writing, through putting pen or pencil
to paper and when I don’t write, I don’t know who I am.
11/30 Making Friends
It’s supposed to be simple.
When we’re young, you just
sit down with someone
in the sandbox and they let you
use their dump truck
and then, like magic, you’re friends.
All it took was shared space.
I don’t remember if it was ever that simple
But maybe the principle still works.
Go out to play–at a reading, an art exhibit,
a community meeting where you’re both
aligned on the same issue and suddenly
you’re getting coffee and then maybe
you’re trading books, taking walks,
having dinner with their friends and family
and now you’re friends
after sharing the same space,
the same sandbox, saying
“You can play with my truck.”
As an adult, maybe it’s more complicated
as we try to build community, too,
as we try to see what our friends can be
as we try to build our lives on our own terms.
The sandbox is filled with much more than sand
and the truck, really, is our hearts as we say
“This is me. You can have me, if you want.”
12/30 Arguments: Verbal
She dealt her pretty words like blades
and they cut to the quick
missing her mark and making her bleed.
How glittering they shone as they flashed
from her lips, eloquently crafted,
and every one unbared a nerve
revealing her own weaknesses
with every cut she tried to place on her mark.
She, instead of expressing her own pain,
used her sharp tongue to peel back flesh
and wantoned with a bone
She never deemed she hurt with her words;
she knew others cared not so she made
herself steel and told herself, about the pain of others,
“That is not steel’s affair.”
To ache is human–not polite–so she flattened
all emotion save for anger or disdain and even that,
she swallowed down, and released only when she
dealt her pretty words like blades
her aim to cut others, her only accomplishment harming herself.
*some lines taken from Emily Dickinson’s poem “She dealt her pretty words like blades.”
Ink and Vein 