I am,
indisputably,
a woman.
To my surprise,
and that of my trivial breasts,
a boyish figure,
that stares back at me.
My dark,
disobedient hair,
and pores,
like small moons on my face.
I am,
ever slightly,
uncoordinated,
like the currents of the ocean,
zig zagging beneath the surface.
I wanted, to be beautiful.
I stared,
at my ruby colored nails,
and the cliffs, underneath my feet, coined as shoes by satan,
the smudge of black underneath my eyelids…
I recall now,
that I,
yes!
I detest,
beauty.
{“Boys do like you,” she said, “despite your acne.”
“Don’t mess up our choreography” she said, with a group of happy girls behind her.
“I am the pretty one, not you” she said, as she stared at her face in the mirror.
“If you sprinkle blush in between your breasts, they may seem bigger,” she said.
“Just don’t wrinkle your face” she said,
acknowledging the nagging inability
of women to age }
I am indisputably,
a woman,
to my surprise,
and in between my legs,
the wide head of a child carving my flesh,
a monthly wave of blood,
sending me spinning into all,
that is,
dark.
The heaviness of the world in the lower half of my body.
I scream,
as if my cries,
could tilt the earth,
as I am also tilted.
“I am not one thing” I said.
(pop art deco)