Engine

Sidewalk by crybabee via DeviantArt.com
Sidewalk by crybabee via DeviantArt.com

The path is mine

Alone

Each slab of concrete

Laid out before me

For me

Each hill, a push toward

Something greater

Every valley

A reward

Unwrapped gifts that promise

Treasures I cannot yet

Imagine

The steps glide forward

Not effortlessly

But purposefully

Unpacking the tightly hewn

Boulder I carry through life

Guilt, worry, fear

Dropped by the edge

Of tomorrow

Until, one morning

I will reach the core

Where grief hides pleasure

Protects it, nurtures it

My Magic

Found again

Burning away

Inside the engine

Of my curves

I feel it

Longing to be discovered

And so

I drive on

Pushing the sunrise ahead

In this thirty minute

Spell

The fire really never left

It was in me

All

Along

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Flower in my pocket

I slipped it in there to hide it from sticky fingers and perplexed glances. It was a greedy gesture, sure. But it’s not for them. 

It’s mine. 

It pokes through the fabric lining a few times, digging into the skin of my thigh. But it isn’t painful.

It’s a thrill. 

An injection of femininity. A sharp reminder of the girl I leave behind so often. A symbol of the self I long to set free. 

I reach into my pocket to feel it’s faceted petals and silvered leaves. I hold it in my hand, letting the buzz of touching something so fine, so sweet rush through to the deepest darkest places that need it so desperately. 

She stands about twenty feet away, a gorgeous girl, fingering a strand of beads and wearing a self satisfied grin. The kind I would wear, if I’d only chosen a dress, if I’d only worn the kitten heels, if is only slipped that flower in my hair. 

It’s me. 

As I glide it from my pocket, watching the light catch the pastel ovals to make glittery lights sprinkle across my skin, I stop thinking. 

I let it find its way into my hair, and the buzz turns into a high. Wings of sparkling daisies glinting in the sun of my imagination, lifting me and my mood, brightening the world all around. 

“Oh, how pretty!”

It’s only a barette. 

But sometimes, the little things are so much more. 

Secret

 

the dress by butterfly-cool via DeviantArt

Everything feels more intense. My skin responds to every breeze, every brush of an insect wing or blade of grass, every flutter of my dress.

I am more than alive, I am life. The often overwhelming disagreement inside my head silenced.

The simple act of slipping on a dress which means so little to most is an act of exuberance to her. Like unlocking handcuffs that have been worn for a lifetime.

In that dress, she is freedom and flight, grace and mercy, beauty in a form that is so bright, it is almost blinding.

A simple dress settles the distress of forty years held captive in ill-fitting trousers meant to subdue and yet inflate. There is supposed to be power inside those two legged garments.

But in this dress, I feel more powerful than ever before. She is being true to herself. Finally. Permanently.

 

I am her. She is me. We both have a secret.

 

It lies within that dress.

 

 

Image courtesy butterfly-cool via DeviantArt.com

Simple

beauty isn't makeup.
beauty isn’t makeup. by shutter_shooter via DeviantArt.com

Beneath the glitter
Glow and shine
I am
Very Simple
But
Taught that plain
Is not pretty
By
So many well meaning
Florescent
Examples
Of femininity
Each of those lectures
Handed me a blade
A weapon to use
Either upon those
Ugly girls
Who didn’t listen
Or to wield against
Myself
So that I only
Would have to suffer
The agony
Of being
Pretty
I chose the
Latter
But now
I see the lies
Inside those sermons
For we are
All
Beautiful
In the skin
We were
Born
In

Nourish

image

There is a moment almost every day when the sun rises above the horizon and the light is purer than any other time of day. In that heart beat, time means nothing. It’s a breath that is more than beauty. It is food for the soul. And whenever I am granted the peace and freedom to bask in my precious sunrise, I stretch out my arms and let that moment nourish me. Because if you can find the things that wake you up from the inside out, you revel in them. Always.

Enough

Stride by sivel120001 via DeviantArt.com
Stride by sivel120001 via DeviantArt.com

My fingers press against the cold glass causing the area just around them to fog from my warmth. I’d love to break this glass that tells me I’m not pretty enough, sexy enough, skinny enough… I’d love to break it and cut away this disgusting flesh that makes me feel like I’m not enough. I’d love to bleed away all these feelings of hatred and disgust. I’d like to feel the pain of that instead of the useless pain of self abhorrence.

I stare hard at that bitch who screams inside my head that I’m ugly and useless. I can’t stand her voice, it feels like a hammer breaking bones inside my skull. I can’t listen to her for another single minute.

I press harder on the glass and focus every ounce of my magic on those points of contact. I know I might break the mirror, but the sound of that might be welcome compared to the hurtful abuse going on inside my skull. I push harder and harder until I suddenly begin to feel my fingers permeating the membrane of this plane.

My reflection sees and laughs, taking on that awful voice. “Whatcha gonna do, baby doll? Do you think you can come through here and shut me up? God, you are dense.”

I wonder if I’m strong enough. Can I truly breech reality? Can I go through this glass? Is this possible?

Her abuse begins anew, from the other side of that force field, and I don’t even care if this is insane and I’ve had some sort of mental break. I am going to shut her up. I am going to make her stop or I’m going to kill her.

My arm slips in and she backs up, laughing harder until my grip finds her wrist and I pull, hard.

Her face slams into the glass, and I find this incredibly amusing, since my arm is literally reaching through this completely impermeable surface. I do it again twice, giggling at the shock in her expression. She tries to yank her hand from my grasp, but only succeeds in pulling me further in. I lift my other hand to brace myself from smacking my own face on the glass, but then those fingers begin to slip through the surface as well.

I yank her toward me again, and punch her hard in the face. She bounces back, but not out of my grip, and blood begins to gush from her nose. It was a surprisingly square hit, given the awkwardness of this fight, but I do it again before she recovers her wit and starts to fight me.

She captures both of my hands and yanks me into the glass, but it is not solid for me, and my upper body slips into the reflection as if it were another room.

At this point, I realize I am clearly crazy and decide to just pummel that wicked whore to death on the other side. As I lunge toward her, she lands a good punch to my throat, knocking the wind out of me, and I fall back into my own bathroom, wheezing and lifting my bloody hand to my throat. I can smell the acrid tinge and wonder for a moment if this might actually be real. Am I fighting the bitch in the mirror.

I stand and stare at her, blood pouring from her broken nose down her chin onto my favorite blouse. “You’re ruining my shirt.”

The shock in her eyes is disarming, as she stares at my chest, and when I look down, it is clear why. I am bleeding too, and I reach up to feel my own broken nose, even though she never landed a punch anywhere but my neck. Realization dawns on us both, as she too is holding her own throat and wheezing. If we fight each other long enough, I will rip apart.

I stand and wonder if I could do that. Kill myself to silence the hate. Cause myself the greatest pain in order to end all pain.

I lean down against the vanity on my elbows and revel in the silence of her contemplating my ability to end my own life in order to end her. My blood drips into the sink but then suddenly stops, and as I stand upright and look at my reflection again, I see that nothing has happened. It wasn’t real. But one tiny drop of blood remains, on the edge of the sink, daunting me.

A reminder? I can beat myself senseless over the reflection in the mirror. I can beat myself to death, if I’m not careful.

I look again at the girl in that glass. A sight that normally fills me with ‘not enoughs’. Because I will forever be not pretty enough or sexy enough or thin enough or smart enough or sweet enough or good enough… This time, the girl I see is just enough.

Enough to keep me from pummeling myself to death.

That girl in the reflection, that girl who plenty of people DO think is enough… Maybe it’s time she accepted that perfection is unattainable. And that today, at least today, I am enough.

Happy Girls

If you ever see a photo of yourself laughing and wish you looked that good all the time…
If you ever just feel terrible, and don’t think anything could lift your spirits…
If you ever hurt, inside your heart, in the way that women know all too well…
If you ever look in the mirror and hate what you see…
If you ever cry yourself to sleep and wake up in the morning with puffy eyes and blotchy skin…
If you ever stand in front of your lover and wonder why you don’t see heat in their eyes…

Smile, pretty girl.

Smile the kind of smile that reaches your eyes and your heart.
Smile the kind of smile that makes your jaw ache.
Smile the kind of smile that feels wrong and false until it doesn’t.
Smile the kind of smile that you get when you dream.
Smile the kind of smile that your mother, child, best friend or puppy gets to see everyday.
Smile the kind of smile that says, “fuck me, I want you.”

Just Smile, pretty girl.

Because no matter what is going on,
That Smile will make it better.

(click through on the picture for an amazing article from The Golden Girl)