an ode

they give us these
--it's not our choice--
and we are judged
before our voice.
but here they are,
they must be crucial,
or else this material would not be so fruitful.
Here they sit,
(some call them tits),
these chest protruders
make rude men ruder.
melons, girls, and sometimes and boobs
my boyfriend often says "jahoobs"
twins, hoohas,
you've got a, nice rack,
I was talking,
have you lost track?
twins because there are two,
knockers, also, but you can't come through.
tata's, titties, itty- bitties
it's not true that small ones are shitty.
and some say, honkers, though they don't make noise
I've gotten so sick of being touched by boys.
jerks who call them hooters
ought to be neutered
"fun bags" is even worse
if you want to play you better ask first.
cutesy names are sometimes nice;
except headlights or mosquito bites.
flat and flabby when we're old and crabby,
when we're young, men get grabby.
Round or plump
or thin and small
it's even ok if you've none at all.
try and be thankful for what you've got
because it's special, this twin crop.

for the millionth time

If there's something I know, it's being fat;
I've always been quite good at that.
Sweat,treadmills,diet pills,
torture 'til I've had my fill.
Acupuncture and Weight loss shakes
do not a thin women make.
Ab rollers and south beach, too
I've spent days in spanx
'til I turn blue.
Herbal remedies, Jenny Craig,
special tea, drink the dregs.
I've tried everything, alli too,
low-carb diets erase my stool.
And when I'm done I'll check my mirror
adjust my eyes to see me clearer,
front view forward,
side view next...
what's he thinking when we have sex?
lift this here, jiggle that
drown in the gravity of being fat.
look at these legs,
they're like trees.
I stare at myself and feel obese.
double chins and muffin tops,
this dieting thing is such a flop.

valentine's day is all year

I am fourteen again when my boyfriend of four years tells me that I am "the bomb."
A "munchkin bomb," to be exact, because I apparently resemble an exploding donut... or midget. Maybe I am just a small bomb?

I haven't figured this out yet.

Yes, he says, I am the bomb. I am cool. I am Cute. He likes my smile, and I'm the entire package. The entire explosive package. And I hold his hand, mine.

I don't know what a "munchkin bomb" is, and I've decided not to ask. I like his clever pet names; endearing and sweet. Nonsensical, no doubt, but isn't love, sometimes?

divorced

my definition of forever changed when you said goodbye. we all did, really.
to normalcy. to comfort. to old expectations.
we all did.

I didn't think we'd be here forever, not really. But part of me wanted to.
stay embedded warm comforts of home. soak in the laughter of elation-- if only for a little while longer.

time is such a bitch, we've always said that. thrust upon us without warning, and "here, you deal."

I guess we will, somehow. In our own, separate ways.

and though I was prepared for forever, time seems slower now that you're gone. Now that we all are.

indebted

sometimes, I think,
this was all made for me.

In my moment of selfishness the world blooms immodestly before me;
For a moment I believe I deserve it.
it's a longish moment that sets time ablaze,
and I am just in awe.
I unfold like spring,
born anew.

asking nothing, I'm handed the world.
Here, digest,
but chew slow.

I will.

harvesting season

you
are my forbidden fruit
golden delicious.
a tantalizing torture:
innocence
and sin
embedded within.

a tango of seduction
ripe skin waiting,
ready to be plucked

dangle before me
and we will entangle,
entwined.
you are a
succulent
debauchery.

I will
drink
you in like a deep breath,
devour you whole
and you will be mine
until there's none left.

a memory

I was the fat kid.
I remember that.
Thick plastic glasses
and lopsided, home-cut bangs.
and fat. Always
fat.
Pigpink cheeks and fleshy fingers
like plump German sausages
burrowed in my
saline soaked sheets.

I cried
I remember that.
Puffed emerald eyes
swollen
with the prickling sting
of invectives,
a buffet of wounds
that ravaged a
breadcrumb
trail through my childhood.

I am the fat kid
I can't seem to forget it.

self fulfilling prophsey

I've created this shell
--my own personal hell--
it prickles and burns
but
I wear it close;
cuddle up
until I suffocate under the
weight
of my own gravity.
I love this depravity.
I've grown to know the pain,
old friend.
I laugh
and I laugh,
and they join me.

fruitful

i love a peach.
peaches:
to have a gardenful
of
perfect
delicious peaches.

their papery skin
whispers a juicy secret to my mouth.
an offering.

But I shop for them--
I hate that.

here they are
piled carelessly under fluorescent lights
just wilting.
and bruised,
all of them,
so fragile.

I'll find one
a beautiful orangeyellow
one...
not perfect.

but juicy.
sweet imperfection
let it

d r i p

down

my

chin.

Hungry

I want you
want.
you.
in the
worst
possible way.

I want to slurp
suck
lick
those s l i c k
fingers;
whorled pads;
infinity.
I want to
trace
taste
your body:
from the sharp,
dangerous
edge of your toes
to the passionred
tip
of your tongue.

I want to swallow,
follow,
you inside me.
s l o w l y
I will tingle
in my fingers
and thighs.
Our bodies will mingle
soft sighs
inside
me
I
am
inside
you.

We thrash
lash.
r o l l
myhips
r o l l
myeyes.

Heaves
relief.
Knowing glances.
Afternoon snack.

act 3

i want to believe you,
i do.
i know you wouldn't lie.
i don't think

But to me, it is. They all are.
lies

And i want to believe myself:
i love me

(no i don't.)

i look away because we are dishonest. One of us is faking, and i'm just so tired.

i've never been a good liar so I learned to apologize,
just not to myself.

So i say
Thank You
with a hollow grin and sad eyes.

(no, not really).

and maybe i can convince you

I can't have it

My friend is beautiful, and sometimes I hate her.

not really

She is the pretty one. She is always the pretty one.
When she walks in the room, people stare: she is every fairy tale. a freckled goldie locks. Tall with white teeth. She is the swan. She is Cindarella and Sleeping Beauty.

She is beauty, and I, the Beast.

I want to be the pretty one,
Just once.

I want to throw out all my lipstick and stilettos, burn my pantyhose and ditch painted toes. I'm tired of trying so hard when it could be so easy.

She will never understand her power, not really. She has always been the pretty one.

And maybe I'm smart. And maybe I'm funny.

But she is beautiful

And it is so unfair
it is so
unfair.

3rd place

I want to be the best at something, a definitive example for everyone else.

I want my name laser-cut in gold and plastered on an oak block to be hung in a long marble hallway.

The Best

I imagine glittering metallic trophy shelves. Statues arranged in perfect rows, frozen in time; forever a testament to perfection.
Maybe I'd name them. Say hello and wish them goodnight.

"we love you," they'd say, "tell us a story, please?"


It's not me though, really. That perfection stuff is so glossy.
It's the neighbors' lawn.
A Martha Stewart Pie.

My shelves are filled with books. novels and reference. How to's and why do's.
My shelves are filled with honorable mentions and thanks for participatings.

They are full, and yet, not so much.

i'll say it if i want

HATE

just rolls off the tongue.

HHAATTEE

I'd eat it for breakfast and breathe fire all day. I'd feel the satisfying burn until dusk.

yum, delicious.

then I'd burp a red ring of smoke that will linger like fog
confident,
unscathed by good intentions.

i love you, hate.
my hate.

love letter

Dearest father,

I hate you. I've hated you since I was fourteen, and now you should know.

I've fantasized about your demise, smiling inside. Sometimes I've thought of doing it myself. Something brutal. Something slow. I want to watch your regret. And I'd watch you try to be sorry.

But you never are. Never.
And you have no regrets, selfish man.

What do you care about? You've memorized the tv guide. Your computers always on. You have tons of shit. Useless shit.

You have two kids. You have a wife.

And you are useless.

Where is your love? What is your love?

I dreamt about it once, what it could be. Maybe you'd come home with my favorite mexican food and ask to have dinner with me. Maybe you'd wish me goodnight. Maybe you'd say you're proud. You love me. You want me. I'm beautiful, and you're so grateful.

Maybe you'd even care about something, anything, other than yourself.

But I awake everyday to the devastating reality of you. Your lazy saunter. Your permanent scowl. The unmitigated disappointment you've caused me.

You stay here; I must go now. I will not turn back.

I'm not sorry.

But neither are you, I think.

most successful recipe

I feel the slow, hot burn of unremitting rage.

I am a furnace of anger; I slow cook my insides on high heat until they roast.

Boil.

Then ignite.

I am enveloped in the agonizing pincushion of hate. and it's for you. Please accept my offering, darling.
I've wrapped it in red. Mad red. I hope you don't mind? It's all I have. And it's for you.

You go ahead and take it. Suffer with it. Suffer with me.
Hate me back.
Do it.
I DARE you.

And then you will cook. You will Sizzle and prickle. I hope you are pan-fried alive from the inside.

Do you feel it yet?