Clara Bow

I may look like Clara Bow, but I have an "Exquisite Corpse" sense of
humor and I may look sweet, but honey, I can be oh, so sour.
There are methods to my madness, a verbal sputtering, trembling. You
may think you know, but you don't.
I'm made of jade, the veins show so clearly and I love them dearly. If its
a question you want to ask, I have all the answers: 42.
I'm practicing my telepathy and my teleportation devices.
I'm working on heading to Jupiter's 27th moon for a brief vacation. I was
told I don't need reservations on a Monday night.
I can be a sweet dream, but “I'm your nightmare. Did you think you
were done with nightmares, now you've become one?”

Staying Power

Will you still love me if I don't shave my legs?
If I don't wear any make-up or low cut blouses?
Will you still think I'm pretty if I gain five pounds?
If I wear t-shirts and old, faded, jeans?

Am I more to you than the facade I give the world?
Am I more to you than my outermost being?

Will you still love me when my breasts begin to sag?
Or when I no longer am able to control every bodily function?
Will you still think I'm beautiful if I gain another five pounds?
Or if I stop dyeing my hair to hide the white strands?

Or will you leave me for breasts that are naturally perky?
For someone whose body is supple and perfect?

Will you love me even though my body is a graveyard?
One that is unable to ripen and produce fruit?
Will you forgive me for the faults of my imperfection?
In spite of all the weaknesses?

Am I more to you than a person in a crowd?
Am I more than a wilting flower of a body?

Will you still love me when I am no longer perfect?
Will you still love me, in spite of myself?
Or will you walk away, your love a mere trifle,
an empty promise made to a weakening heart?

Do I have staying power?

Infertile

They ask me why there are no children around me.
They ask why there is no infant in my arms.
They ask how I was so lucky to escape motherhood.

"You've been married for a while..."
"When are you going to have a baby?"
"Why don't you have children yet?"

I try to explain, try to swallow the anger and the shame.
I was in a car accident,
a mangled pelvis that will probably never be able to cradle life,
a hip so thoroughly crushed that they didn't know how to repair it.

I try to explain, try to bite back the tears and the sting.
I have an imperfect body,
ovaries that never really knew how to work properly,
a cervix too far tipped to one side and tilted downward.

They ask me why I don't want to be a mother.
They say I'm wasting my natural mothering skills.
They say I should try, I would be a wonderful parent.

"Why don't you adopt?"
"You'd be such a wonderful mother!"
"You'll change your mind one day."

I try to explain, try to pinch off the sarcasm before it escapes.
I helped raise three children,
a younger sister who has blossomed into adolescent womanhood,
two cousins who are quickly leapfrogging toward teenage years.

I try to explain, the sadness and the depression like a stone.
I watched my mother,
watched her almost bleed to death on our bathroom floor,
five embryos spontaneously aborted by her body.

They offer opinions, telling me I'll change my mind some day.
"You don't want to die a lonely old woman do you?"
They criticize, echoing all the sentiments I have already heard.

Admission

Yes, I love you. I love you so much I can hardly stand it.

You make it hard to breathe.

How many languages must I learn to convey this to you?

Eight? Ten? Twenty-five? A thousand?

Are there even enough letters in all the various alphabets to begin to explain it to you?

How many times am I going to let these words die on my tongue?

Twice? Three times? A million?

Mən səni sevirəm.

Je t'aime.

Saranghae.

Te amo.

Aisheteru.

I love you.

Feminism.

The question isn't how will I fail, but how do you intend to stop me. I am my own person and you can't silence me.
Let my voice ring out, louder than the church bells. Let me be heard. Let me be understood. Let me be kind.
I dare you, try to stop me. Try to pin me to the ground, I'm already soaring.

Rising Against

I am a tide, rising up, wild and free.
I crash into the hard truth of the shore,
bashing my skull against it,
trying to make some sense of it.

I am a survivor, raising my fists, fighting.
I am crumbling flesh,
divorced from the traumas,
devoid of the reasons behind actions.

I am terrified.

I can make no sense of these realities.
I can't breathe the poisoned clouds.
I don't understand the reasons,
the misgivings, the belligerency.

I am simply a tide, rising up,
eager to devour the, hard won,
knowledge of the earth. Eager to be.
I am a survivor.

I am stronger than I believe myself to be.