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.