wilted

It seems like the uphill battle of ugly winds forever upward.

The mirror is UNkind; it's depiction of reality is at odds with the sweet, romantic saga I've tried to delude myself with for my day to day existence. Though even my delusion is a gossamer shadow--it is exposed in a soft breeze.

I have always been he quintessential ugly duckling. I spent the greater part of my childhood hiding behind gigantic plastic glasses and at least thirty extra pounds. I have never fully recovered from the cruel playground torment I was subjected to in my early years. I am still that girl alone on the swings; dateless on prom night.

I've done what I can. The glasses are long gone, for one. Mascara and lipstick are godsends. But even as I type, I am distracted by what I am convinced are unusually portly sausage fingers and less than desirable thighs. I have a laundry list of hates to match my catalog of wishes and a bottomless cauldron in which I can stir them.

My truth and my beauty seem to live at opposite ends of the same vessel, yet never seem to cross paths. I want harmony in both--to live in a song.

I want to set ablaze these unforgiving notions; to burn a trail through memory.

I want to be the swan.

And, please, to believe it.

Stuck

I am going nowhere at full speed. Here I am sitting still in a fetid pit of insurmountable frustration while everyone speeds away.

And here I sit. Stuck at a wall too tall to climb, so I kick it. I punch it and curse it, while my dilemma seems to worsen.

So here I sit. Too tired to speak, too sore to move, bleeding, and nowhere.

sentimental

I never used to cry at things. Anything, really, save for the occasional wound, a broken arm, or the vicious retribution of my brother.

I saw "Gone With the Wind" when I was eleven, and sat in relative ambivalence to Scarlett's tribulations. When I looked over, my mom wore a red-eyed, puffy faced expression of grief at which I snickered.

My mom has always been the quintessential crier. Movies, beauty, love, songs, trees. She cries. It is not a woeful cry, or a longing, but rather a tribute to God. A thank you; this is all I have.

Silly mom, I always thought with a twinge of guilt. Wait... Should I be doing that?

And then I did.

It started when I was eighteen. It was not a particularly special occasion that prompted my graceful tears of quiet awe. Just nothing and everything.

And now I, too, am a crier. Like my mom, my tears are prompted by the smallest details of day to day life. The things that do not demand my attention, but wait patiently to be noticed. The things that hint at a bigger picture.

I don't hide my tears like I used to. I've been embarrassed. I've been laughed at. But what can I do but say, "thank you. this is all I have."

Parasite

Get off my back, monkey. I do not want you: screechy, scratching, annoying, cloying little thing.

Get off and go.

You do not keep me warm. You do not offer me comfort. I'm tired of your drainage, your sly ways, your slick tricks, and your leeching. You make me itch, you make me twitch, and when you're gone I'll switch to the snug comfort self-assurance. And I will envelop myself in the ease of trust.

I will not miss your vexing nags. Things will be peaceful when you're gone, and while I stand up straighter, I will happily live here and now.