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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.

I’ve heard stories of women recall watching their mothers glamorously putting makeup, feeling mesmerized by womanhood but in my story I’m sitting on the edge of the tailed bathtub watching my father as he shaves his face in a white cotton undershirt. He would have me go fetch things for him from the closet, like fancy leather belts and dress shirts fresh from the dry cleaners —tag still safety-pinned to the cuff. He’d lift his chin up so high in the air as he sprayed cologne on each side of his neck as and he patted it in with rough hands. his eye contact with himself never breaking in the mirror as he utter commands to me.

Now, I stand infront of the mirror and pretend I am a man. I button up my pretend 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, I am satisfied with the room I occupy.

Addendum:

Other times I stand there and pretend I am you. Looking at myself as someone else would, trying to imagine what they’d see: Brunette, lanky frame, large eyes and a girlishness I have never been able to shake despite being halfway through my twenties. 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 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, but a disatisfaction that always hopes there is 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.

Someone (please)
teach me how to clothe my words
and make them dance
so rythmic you lean in
for more

Teach me,
how to make my truth
more bearable

Teach me,
how to make my truth
less hideous.