24 May 2015


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Pushing back the cuticle
for some catharsis,
shaping a little crescent moon.
Curling lashes with flashes
of expectations, to catch your eye.
Maybe you should marry me,
a fixer-upper, but a sprightly thing.
Maybe my temporary beauty
can cause permanent love.
For each night I lie wide awake
I promise a lifetime of catharsis.
In your room, where nothing
belongs to me, I can be another keepsake.
Just give me a chance to shine.

02 April 2015

Flaws and Guilt

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I'm not good at keeping in touch.

I eat too much, too quickly.

I stay up too late and generally don't get enough sleep.

I don't often get mad, but when I do, my temper is pretty fiery.

I try every day to limit my hypocrisies and personal inconsistencies; I fall short, but I at least try not to hurt anyone else along the way. I occasionally fall short with that, too.

I have trouble sticking up for myself.

I articulate myself much better when I write than when I speak.

I talk slowly and deeply and have always been self-conscious about my voice.

I don't trust easily.

While I've started to entertain the possibility that I'm pretty, I have always struggled with beauty and I am trying to redefine it for myself.

I care too deeply, sometimes to the point of neglecting myself and my own boundaries.

I don't want to disappoint anyone, let anyone down.

I'm scared of finding myself in severe poverty again.

I'm not afraid of death; I'm only afraid of not loving enough. That's not a typo.

I will live with my chronic health problems for the rest of my life; I get that. I just want more consistency so that I can have more flexibility. That will probably never happen, and I need to accept that.

I need to accept a lot of things, and stop feeling so guilty all the time.

27 March 2015


1 comment:

Guilt is my talisman,
my heirloom. A fresh coat of paint
separates me from the other women,
the other prisoners, our skin still wet.
If I told the truth now, I could
preserve you, like a picture in a locket,
my face and your face,
painted and frozen.
I can't. Your eyes
are blurry, and I am
trapped inside them.

21 February 2015


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I don't want to be a good girl. I want to be a great woman.
I don't want to be compared--
thinner than so-and-so;
dimmer than what's-her-name;
like a mother holding her child;
like what's-his-face's daughter:
she's someone's
daughter, someone's
future wife.
I am someone
Can they see me now? Can they be proud of me now?
I want to be a template
but more than a muse.
                            but more.

01 February 2015

Tired Subjects

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Most beauty is hidden, she said,
her lips plush, but I tell her my body
deserves more than metaphor, and yet I have
trouble doing it justice. I use these hands to shape
dough or clay or minds, hopefully,
but my own brain does the harder work,
translating my ___ thoughts into ___ language
to come out of my ____ mouth. There is no justice here,
because I am a sloppy human being. I struggle being.
Plans leave tiny marks, loose eye lashes
on my cheek. To call them wishes would be a mistake.
I'm afraid I'm not that optimistic.
Stray _____ thoughts.
I'm not selfish when I write;
I'm selfish when I don't write,
when I don't translate
my ____ thoughts into ___ language.
The symmetry is absent.
The symmetry is a wish.
But I am a sloppy human being,
so under piles of papers and rubber bands and receipts,
under this rubble,
must be beauty.
It must be somewhere.

22 January 2015

Not Mary Janes

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This is for my younger sister, Erica.


She always said that I had the hands of a baker, large palms for kneading dough, round fingers for thumbprint cookies, perfect for creases with jam.

And she had the hands of a piano player, her fingers long, angular, symmetrical. She took lessons, but gave up after a year, because the teacher smelt of burnt coffee, and her bathroom was way too purple.

When we were twelve and ten, respectively, we measured each other’s legs and lamented the stretch marks that were forming where our hips were widening. Boys noticed, too—not our marks, but our hips.

Meanwhile, her arms, long and sparsely freckled, reached skyward, and my own arms, short and soft, clung to my sides. We carried ourselves un-observantly. We didn’t notice boys, but we noticed girls. We noticed their hair, parted off to the side, clipped neatly. We noticed their eye brows, drawn with care, stray hairs ripped from their pores or combed to conform to neat little arches. We noticed the small feet, pushed delicately into Mary Janes.

But we were not Mary Janes. Mary Janes in sizes 11 and 9, respectively, made us look like clowns. We stuck to what we knew and understood, and for a long time, that meant that we stuck to hating our bodies.

But our hands eventually survived our hatred. And later, my breasts survived. Her legs. Bit by bit, body part by body part, we tried to salvage everything. Her crooked teeth were next. “David Bowie has crooked teeth,” she said, and that made everything better. After that, my nose made the cut. “It’s not too big, not too small,” I said. Then we noticed our own eye brows, how they lacked distinct shape and conformity. We noticed our mouths, big, toothy, prominent. We noticed how other girls noticed us. We noticed our height, our long arms finally reaching upward together, perfect for hugs.

I was fourteen when I realized that my body was my first home. It didn’t have to be a cage. It didn’t have to be an obstacle. It housed my brain, my spirit, my heart, but it was more than just a container. It could be warm and safe and strong. It could protect the ones I loved.

My sister and I still talk about our bodies. And we still sometimes complain. But they are and were the first things we ever owned, and we understand that now. We have done more than just notice. We have celebrated. 

19 January 2015

Selma and the Long Road Ahead

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Yesterday, I saw the movie Selma, which I highly recommend. The crowd was a mix of races, and as we were leaving, an older white man ahead of me commented, "I'm glad things aren't like that anymore." The two young black women behind him laughed.

Everywhere we turn, we witness the truth unfolding, and some of us are too desensitized to see it: Racism has never left this country; actually, racism is alive and well all over the world. I could see Dr. King protesting about Ferguson and New York, protesting about Nigeria. When I see "good people" fail to acknowledge current racism, like the probably well-meaning man I just quoted, I see Dr. King's face and Malcolm X's face in my mind and wonder how they would react.

Because the truth is that MLK's dream is far, far from realized. He's been sanitized and canonized, but in reality, he was radical. He was seen as a threat. His dreams are still a threat to this country in particular, because acknowledging systemic racism in America has yet to happen. It's true that we don't segregate blacks and whites in our physical spaces, but we sure as hell segregate them in our minds. Think about our discussions of rioting and looting. Think about our discussions of thugs and criminals. Even "good people" on Facebook, well-intentioned people, continue to Other black folks and chastise their behavior. Even "good people" on Facebook, well-intentioned people, are using terms like "sand n****rs" to describe folks whose mosques were bombed after Charlie Hebdo. These aren't conservatives talking, either. These people identify as progressive. Today, these people talk about MLK in fluffy, reflective ways. And yet they are ignorant to their own racism. They fail to acknowledge how their behavior perpetuates systemic racism. They fail to see that their "scolding" of folks of different races makes them a racist. None of us wants to defer MLK's dream, and yet all of us are actively deferring it.

After seeing Selma, I'm sure that the person who said, "I'm glad things aren't like that anymore," truly thinks that we live in a society where Dr. King's dream has been realized, but the young women who laughed -- a dark, knowing laugh -- understand the truth.

18 December 2014

In the Snow

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When were you planning on leaving?
I've already gone.
I could not leave quietly.
I kicked down
the door, the barrier
between you and me.
I kicked in
your front teeth.
I could not leave quietly.
The stories you tell yourself
are loud. They rattle my ear drums.
Do stories expire?
Do they become frail and tired?
Do they become lies?
I've already gone
and told myself the truth,
that I can be brave
and have my own stories,
that I can plan on leaving
at any time, my footsteps
making a pattern
in the snow.

07 December 2014

Of Houses

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Retroactive and backdated, gradually expired: I am an endless string of choices; I am riddles made of plastic; I make no sense, my teeth finally puncturing my lip; I am finally horizontal, stretched taut over the world, my womb containing numbers and data, my mind controlling my own version of space-time. I am an old calendar of pinups. I am an address book. I am a fallen tree, in which small animals make houses. Above all, I am useful, but only for so long; I am used, only for so long.