61225
THE MAN I AM
I brushed my teeth so hard my gums began to bleed. It wasn’t on purpose but my mind wandered off a bit and before I knew it I was spitting red. I rinsed my toothbrush under the faucet until the bristles lost their pink tint, set it on the shelf, and began a routine examination of myself in the mirror.
Sometimes I like to look at myself and pretend I’m a man. You hear stories of women recalling their mothers glamorously putting makeup on in the mirror, feeling mesmerized by womanhood, but I remember sitting on the edge of the bathtub watching my father as he shaved his face in a white cotton undershirt, lifting his chin so high up in the air as he sprayed cologne on each side of his neck and patted it in with rough hands. He would have me go fetch things for him from the closet, like leather belts and dress shirts that were fresh from the dry cleaners —tag still safety-pinned to the cuff— and I used to put them in my pockets as if they held a sort of power.
I stand infront of the mirror and pretend I am a man. I imagine how I’d button up my blue-striped dress shirt; hands moving with such habitual rhythm I don’t even bother to look down. I puff my shoulders out broadly and cock my head, lifting my chin so my eyes look down at everything, the corners of my lips curl up into a smug smirk, and I am satisfied with the space I occupy.
Other times I stand there and pretend I am you. Looking at myself as someone else would, trying to imagine what they’d see. The trouble there is I don’t always know who you are and I wish you could tell me. Are you someone who loves me? I can’t discern the difference. I often wonder if you like me as I am or if you wish I was different in small ways. I run my fingers through my long tangly hair. I tuck it behind my ears, sigh, tucking it and untucking it two more times. I am picky like my father despite my attempts not to be.
61825
RESTLESS LEGS
One day in an art class I was taking at the community college a shy somebody came up to me and wordlessly reached out their hand with a peace offering. When they uncurled their palm there was a piece of bazooka bubble gum waiting to be mine. The wrapper had a comic on one side and a fortune on the other that read Your restlessness makes you a great traveler.
I laid in bed that evening with the window wide open, but no breeze came in, tossing around in my white sheets. My restlessness no longer felt like a celebrated attribute, I worry now it points to a deeper inability to be satisfied with what’s in front of me, always thinking there was something better just waiting around the corner.
62725
Its not the good kind of messy
with the uncombed curls and
slight smudge of the lips,
Its the bleed on your sheets
and sleep in them for a week
kind of messy.
I don’t know how to write few words
that are haphazard yet meaningful
like they tumbled onto the page
splayed out beautiful and naked,
I have too many words
saying too much, too plainly
their earnestness so blinding
it feels immodest.
And its not the gentle kind,
like when someone reaches up
and a bit of skin peaks out
and your eyes ask to linger,
Its the type when you open a door
and wince, because you know
you weren’t supposed to
shame on both sides.
Someone (please)
teach me how to clothe my words,
and dress them up to dance
in a way so rythmic
you lean in for more
and never quite indulge
Teach me,
how to make my truth
more bearable
Teach me,
how to make my truth
less hideous.