Here I am for your consideration
a most curated version of myself
This me doesn’t wear yoga pants and thrift shop cardigans
She doesnt eat pepperettes and poundcake for dinner
She doesn’t spend inordinate amounts of time in bed masturbating until her thighs go weak and her brain goes numb
She isn’t poor or disabled or queer,
Unless you are looking for diversity
no, this self is a whirlwind of confidence in flawless eyeliner.
With excellent references and profound insights
She tells the kind of lies you can believe in.
When she sits next to you, small and broken in a crumpled paper dress
Humiliated by the ravages of her own body
Tell her she’s never been more fiercely beautiful
When she rages like a torrential wind, fury whipping, felling trees and hurling gravel,
And when the storm passes from her spirit, wipe her tears and call her sunshine
Make her cups of tea.
Remember that she isn’t yours. Not really. She belongs to her mission,to her passions, and to her dog. Accept this.
Make her skin sing and never stop touching her. When passion ebbs, rub her feet, kiss her knees, especially the one that creaks when it bends. Trace the lines on her face and rejoice in how time has written itself there.
And when her face is a river, feed her mundane acts of devotion
Do the dishes, walk the dog, go to the store.
Make love while you sweep the floor, shovel the walk, tuck her in.
Do not be afraid that her ice blue eyes resemble an isolated lake
She will return.
Love isn’t a stone, it needs to be made fresh daily, like bread.
Her heart was like a rattlesnake, quick to lash out
And Deadly, to the unsuspecting fools drawn in by the music of her laughter,
As high and clear as a Tibetan prayer bowl
How were they to know that beauty’s heart was its own beast, filthy and ravenous, pacing inside its ribbed cage, living in unsanitary conditions, fed but scraps to keep it weak and tolerant of mating in captivity.
Some days it raged, howling into the night with every beat.
Others it despaired, curling up into a darkened corner of her chest, heaving there silently.
Both jailer and guardian, she vacillated between giving it the space to run, full tilt, rolling in earth and bathing in moonlight, diving in to the sheer and pungent joy of being a free and wild thing
and binding its frenetic beat and passion for violence with all manner of restraints,a kind of living death, in which the only form of resistance was to crash about its cage chaotically, interrupting the breath.
Between the heaving and the howling, she paints a flawlessly face,her breath quickening as the beast beneath her breast feels a stirring rememberance of prowling for its prey, the stalk, the chase, the kill.
She applies the crimson red tube to her lips and both recall with satisfaction the salty taste of blood.