it's all very confessional.
For someone who has made it a lifelong goal to be a scholar of the English language, I make some grotesque typos.
have i posted this before?
“Hook me up with some of that femme priviledge,”
My girlfriend texts me across the table as the owner of this restaurant brings me free dessert. I laugh and offer her a piece,
hoping all along that the whole world could see her naked,
not only because she’s got a great pair of legs,
but because for whatever reason
that’s all that would prove we’re the same kind of beautiful.
Because the only acceptable kind of beautiful has a lacquered smile and a simple
sundress, the only kind of lovely wears lip stick and liner and walks a graceful 115 pounds.
I am not ashamed of my femininity;
I am resentful of her invisibility.
Worse yet is when she’s noticed, and the privilege becomes that of men telling me, “you just need a good dicking.”
That of girls shrinking back at parties because “she’s a lesbian,”
as you know, all homosexuals have uncontrollable urges to inappropriately touch you at the right venue.
United we trust in a prescribed beauty that limits the body and inhibits the mind,
You could go insane counting the ways we’re told to be perfect.
The way she only wears sports bras, the way I own infinite earrings, the way her body is a canvas for good art, the way his seven times broken nose accentuates his cheek bones; you could not ask for better lighting.
You could not ask for better models.
Humanity’s beauty can’t be a notion decided by corporate commotion asking for a quick way to a demographic, no,
it’s gotta be the story behind the shoulder splint, the history in her buttoned up cardigan, the modesty in covered shoulders but bare ankles.
How fascinating is it that our bodies give our hearts away,
We are lovely.
Why is it that all the animals were saved on Noah’s Ark, but we can’t stand the idea of fitting two of every kind of gender in the same room?
Take some of this femme privilege and string it up like paper lamps. Let it light up the delicate steps of your feet. Let it flicker at a dance. Then blow it out after hours. Crumple up the sack it came in and sigh with satisfaction.
We did not come to this earth for sidelong glances. We came for the soft romances.
Love is thick, like blood, like honey.
Every morning, I am so upset,
I am so upset,
I am so upset.
this skirt is too long
these shoes too tight
this necklace is all wrong
and this hair
don’t even get me started.
every morning, I am so upset.
you wake up to my
my ugh i look like shit and why is my
bush so bushy
how can you even find this attractive
How could I even say that to you?
Here’s what I mean,
Here’s what I should be saying instead of holding fast to
so much thick starchy dissatisfaction that it clogs my throat
and saying I love you comes out
in a cough and not
a sweet sigh
I love you.
I’m not writing enough.
I’m terrified that my mother’s right and if I leave you
worse yet you ever leave me
I’ll sink flat into the earth and say
you were right all along
you were right
leave me here with the dirt and the grass and the blooming weeds
I don’t want to stand back up
every morning I want to be laid in the dirt
and pass the day in the sun,
so I don’t have to sink into this mire of self-pity and hatred
I hate myself.
Have you ever lived with yourself so long that you realize
you aren’t that great?
this insane standard of human was built up in my bones
drunk day after day with my glass of milk.
well, now I’m a vegan and I will never be good enough for
What is it that I can’t be good enough for is it the God of my Father?
is it the Lord of my Mother that keeps me on the verge of tears but for fuck’s sake never let it spill over
and I mean no one
told me there would be so much nausea accompanied with being twenty
What am I trying to say here?
One. instead of this skirt is too long,
I mean I love you and I wish I could wake up and be the warm warm skin of your arms so I’d be safe and never tired from standing.
Two, instead of this hair,
I mean please someone take my past out of my nightmares and make it
a brief chapter in this lifelong fairytale
Three, instead of I am so upset,
make it I know I’m not the center of the universe but nothing makes you
dizzier than trying to shake a certainty you aren’t certain of.
I said it.
;roses are red
The earth’s at an angle
If we’re not careful
It’s me MC will strangle.
Roses are red,
Sunshine is yellow,
Mary Clare hates her poem,
She’s an unhappy fellow.
Roses are red,
Violets could be blue,
But Mary Clare’s a turd
So here’s her poem to be viewed.