I slowly relearned how to

Love myself fiercely

Unapologetically

In defiance of every

Small-town, small-mind,

No-heart demon

Who said I deserved

To live in shame

And self-loathing.

My love is sharp blades,

A scarred old soldier.

I love myself

Like armor,

Like war paint,

Like a battle cry.

I love myself

Like armies poised

At the ready.

But I can’t help but wonder

What it would feel like

To love myself with the soft

Self-assurance of someone

Who never forgot how

Who was never told not to

Who never had to fight

A war for her own soul.

When I am five I put on every string of pearls my grandma owns at once

And pose for the camera, smiling ear to ear, completely unselfconscious.

No one tells me it’s wrong to wear this, or pose like that. No one critiques the attractiveness of my smile.

When I am six I make myself sick sobbing because I don’t want to be forced into another itchy, puffy dress.

It’s a recurring theme on Sunday mornings.

When I am seven my grandma tsks at my yearbook photo, wondering

“Why can’t you smile and look sweet like the other little girls?”

My hair is half up, my shirt is bright blue. My smile is lopsided, sardonic

Like I’m already in on the darkly funny joke of yearbook photos.

When I am eight, I’m not allowed to go shirtless in the summer anymore.

I’m forced, miserably, into a t-shirt, sweat sticking the cotton to my back almost instantly.

It’s 90 degrees out and humid as hell, and I don’t understand why suddenly my body is something that has to be covered up.

When I am nine I ask for a tank top, and am asked in return

“Do you really feel comfortable showing that much of your skin?”

When I am eleven, my grandma says it’s time for a training bra.

My body is becoming a temptation to men, she says.

I start slouching and walking with my arms over my chest, wondering why this is happening to me.

When I am twelve I want to wear makeup to school.

My grandma refuses, says little girls don’t need it.

It starts to feel like the older I get, the less it matters what makes me feel comfortable, or pretty.

Later that same year, I want to wear a miniskirt and a sweater to a dance.

She rips the skirt to pieces in front of me. It was too tight and too short, she says.

It will not be the last time that happens.

I want a black dress for Easter. I’m told it’s not appropriate.

I want to dye my hair red. I’m told I’ll look like a harlot.

I want to try blonde instead, I’m told it’s too light for my skin tone.

I want to cut my hair off short. I don’t have the face for it.

I go to school in the morning with no makeup on, the tube of black lipstick waiting in my purse.

One of the teachers rats me out to my grandmother. I color my nails in with sharpies, because I’m not allowed to buy black nail polish.

I itch in my own skin. I never feel comfortable.

At some point, she notices that I’m never in photos.

Do you come here often? He asks with a cheesy, exaggerated Eyebrow waggle, intended to seem Ironic no doubt, to say “I don’t take myself too seriously.”

It’s easy to see why: Who could? Heart-shaped face, rusty hair. Hard eyes a muddy, glassy green. Sharp nose, out of place in this florid face. Wide mouth, always open, obscene.

The kind of mouth you can’t help but imagine Pressed to all those parts unknown. Unknown and untouched, make a Pioneer of the laughing man with the Swindler’s eyes.

Poem: I lik the form

allthingslinguistic:

microsff:

My naym is pome / and lo my form is fix’d
Tho peepel say / that structure is a jail
I am my best / when formats are not mix’d
Wen poits play / subversions often fail

Stik out their toung / to rebel with no cause
At ruls and norms / In ignorance they call:
My words are free / Defying lit’rate laws
To lik the forms / brings ruin on us all

A sonnet I / the noblest lit’rate verse
And ruls me bind / to paths that Shakespeare paved
Iambic fot / allusions well dispersed
On my behind / I stately sit and wave

You think me tame /
  Fenced-in and penned / bespelled
I bide my time /
  I twist the end / like hell

* “lik” should be read as “lick”, not “like”. In general, the initial section on each line should be read sort of phonetically.

Written for World Poetry Day, March 21, 2018. When I had this idea earlier today, I thought it was the worst, most faux hip pretentious idea for a shallow demonstration of empty wordsmithing skill in poetry ever. So I had to try to write it. I mean, how often do you get to fuse the iambic dimeter of bredlik – one of the newest and most exciting verse forms – with the stately iambic pentameter of the classic sonnet?

BREDLIK SONNET

You know, the last time that I found you,

you were smilin’ something sweet.

You had magic all around you.

You had something to complete.

I think you knew how much you meant, though,

and did just what you came here for.

Some people go out through the window

just to come in the back door.

So lay your burden down.

You don’t need to carry it ‘round no more.

‘Cause in the end all is forgiven,

and our friendship will always remain.

So go ahead, live the life you’re livin’,

and don’t you ever be ashamed.

Just do your best for me,

’cause things will never be the same.

– from “The Gift” by Lucas Revolution

poemsforpersephone:

what if
when icarus fell
apollo caught him
before he hit the sea,
arms as warm as the sun,
but safer.

what if
when ariadne cast the rope
across a broken branch
aphrodite stepped in
with a reminder that this,
this is not the kind of love
you die for.

what if
when achilles
was ready for war
ares appeared with a smile
and said “you win well when you win,
but what are you unwilling
to lose if you lose?”
and achilles knew the answer.

if you could
retell the tale wouldn’t you want
to tell it kinder? wouldn’t you
want to give them peace, even love,
where you could?


l.s. | I AM TIRED OF RE-WRITING TRAGEDY WITHOUT CHANGE. LET THEM LIVE. LET THEM LEARN. LET THEM LOVE © 2016

Do not trust benevolent gods
Who enter, smiling, offering gifts
Without revealing first the price.
Benevolent gods: there’s no such thing.

Only a trick, only a trap,
Woven to make you take the bait.
Make you sign and seal your fate.
The gods have been hungry of late.

If it seems auspicious
Be suspicious.

When I was twenty-six I looked in the mirror
Saw my mother’s eyebrows
Picked up the tweezers.
Ripped that bushy, untouched, good-girl reminder
Out of my face
One hair at a time.
I carved an arch, polished, sardonic
Looked nothing like my mother when I was through.
Smiled at my reflection in the mirror.
Felt free.