Image by Gonzo 2013 Buffalo, NY
Restless
We are
So edgy
Standing on the brink of disaster
With every word we say
Laced intricately with every thought we hide behind our front stage face
Like when you told me
In a roundabout way
That I am beautiful, but not like the girls in magazines
But by my soul,
Yes.
That was the word
Or.
Perhaps it was passion
I forget
I forget not because I ignore your good intentions
please get this correct - I am grateful that you think of me at all
Yet I do not feel as if my soul, or my passions, or the nature of my person
Should be qualified
By glossy pages in a book
And I find myself rattled
And angry
Then angry at myself for being angry
Because really, you had the best of intentions
But I am restless at my own silence
My own complacency in a system of confined contentment
I am restless at the thought
That it seems appropriate to touch my arm
And tell me I’ve come so far
Yet you do not tell me exactly what tools you are using to measure my stride
And I am sorry…
There I go again.
. . . . . .
I am sorry that I said that too loud
I am sorry I don’t know where you keep your glasses
I am sorry I don’t know of which author you refer
I am sorry I take up more space than you think a woman should
I am sorry I cross my arms when I notice you looking at me for a long time
I am sorry I don’t know what that word means
I am sorry I put that back in the wrong place
I am sorry I took up too much of your time
I am sorry that I don’t appreciate…
Being qualified by pages in a magazine?
Or was it that I don’t appreciate shrinking in on myself
To accommodate air or ideals
I am sorry.
And dear friend, please do understand
That I know you have the best of intentions
But really, I don’t like being told that it’s ok that I’m not pretty
Like you or her or them or even that sacred place
Because woah-man, I’ve got soul and hey –that compensates…
Right?
And now, here’s the rub…
It’s not the pretty that I apparently misplaced underneath the size of my waist
Or the width of my face
Or the dark purple of puffy veins on my leg
It’s that somehow my name, my person, my space
Has come to be identified by those things…
That the nature of me
Has been wrapped up in the nature of what they want from me
And tied with a pink, polka dot bow.
It’s that that kind of thinking has us backwards
Has us decided on what it is to be anything
When anything is everything which is nothing
Which is everything –or some existentialist shit like that
Let me make it clear, in case my long winded sorry excuse for a poem has failed thus far
(sorry for that, too).
…
I don’t want to be told that I have come so far
When you know nothing of where I’ve been or where I am and your qualifying progress by some idea of intelligence
I knew evil in dark rooms just outta kindergarten
When friend,
I learned to navigate a sea of toxic gender performativity at ten
When I was asked if my fat ass could refrain from breathing so heavy
When I was left in cities out of naivety disguised as love or lust or just wanting for someone to say that I was beautiful not because of my fucking soul or my mind or my goddamn drive
Just because we are, and that’s enough…
We are
So edgy
Standing on the brink of disaster
With every word we say
Laced intricately with every thought we hide behind our front stage face
Like when you told me
In a roundabout way
That I am beautiful, but not like the girls in magazines
But by my soul,
Yes.
That was the word
Or.
Perhaps it was passion
I forget
I forget not because I ignore your good intentions
please get this correct - I am grateful that you think of me at all
Yet I do not feel as if my soul, or my passions, or the nature of my person
Should be qualified
By glossy pages in a book
And I find myself rattled
And angry
Then angry at myself for being angry
Because really, you had the best of intentions
But I am restless at my own silence
My own complacency in a system of confined contentment
I am restless at the thought
That it seems appropriate to touch my arm
And tell me I’ve come so far
Yet you do not tell me exactly what tools you are using to measure my stride
And I am sorry…
There I go again.
. . . . . .
I am sorry that I said that too loud
I am sorry I don’t know where you keep your glasses
I am sorry I don’t know of which author you refer
I am sorry I take up more space than you think a woman should
I am sorry I cross my arms when I notice you looking at me for a long time
I am sorry I don’t know what that word means
I am sorry I put that back in the wrong place
I am sorry I took up too much of your time
I am sorry that I don’t appreciate…
Being qualified by pages in a magazine?
Or was it that I don’t appreciate shrinking in on myself
To accommodate air or ideals
I am sorry.
And dear friend, please do understand
That I know you have the best of intentions
But really, I don’t like being told that it’s ok that I’m not pretty
Like you or her or them or even that sacred place
Because woah-man, I’ve got soul and hey –that compensates…
Right?
And now, here’s the rub…
It’s not the pretty that I apparently misplaced underneath the size of my waist
Or the width of my face
Or the dark purple of puffy veins on my leg
It’s that somehow my name, my person, my space
Has come to be identified by those things…
That the nature of me
Has been wrapped up in the nature of what they want from me
And tied with a pink, polka dot bow.
It’s that that kind of thinking has us backwards
Has us decided on what it is to be anything
When anything is everything which is nothing
Which is everything –or some existentialist shit like that
Let me make it clear, in case my long winded sorry excuse for a poem has failed thus far
(sorry for that, too).
…
I don’t want to be told that I have come so far
When you know nothing of where I’ve been or where I am and your qualifying progress by some idea of intelligence
I knew evil in dark rooms just outta kindergarten
When friend,
I learned to navigate a sea of toxic gender performativity at ten
When I was asked if my fat ass could refrain from breathing so heavy
When I was left in cities out of naivety disguised as love or lust or just wanting for someone to say that I was beautiful not because of my fucking soul or my mind or my goddamn drive
Just because we are, and that’s enough…
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