Of Me

This poem was a hard one for me, but so very, very easy to write.

I have questioned my own size and shape since I was thirteen years old. After a school nurse was disappointed with my weigh-in, I went home and buried my face in my mother’s chest and wondered what I was “supposed” to look like. Too short, too tall, too thin, too wide. I drink and I eat sweets, but not a moment goes by without me questioning my shape and my own self worth along with it; these thoughts are a plague to those struggling with self esteem issues, from the time they climb out of bed to the moment they undress at night. And while each day is a struggle, I have managed to find small pockets of peace within myself. We are all different, and we are all beautiful in our own way. Who wants to look like everyone else? What a boring world we would be living in. I try daily to remind myself of all the other things I like about me. To all those others sailing along in my boat: take a deep breath, throw your shoulders back, and make the mirror your new best friend. After all, confidence is sexy.

xoxo,

Nicole Marie

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

such rough patchwork

on such a young thing,

no glass smooth flesh

just marble valleys

on a pale pink landscape.

 

those smiling lines on her back

aren’t the wings of a butterfly,

those glowing highways

on her thighs

don’t twist with assurance.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

a real life caricature

all lowered brow, all rising forehead,

the living reflection

of a fun house mirror

she looks away as she dresses.

 

cemented tongueless

in a wavering cave

the elements get in easily here,

she hides her breath

until the flooding stops.

 

nothing matters

when the roadway

is littered with flaws,

she only trips

over the rubble.

 

all is wrapped in silence

when she wakes,

eyes shut tight

no shedding litters

the bedroom floor.

 

how can she grow

when her sight

is a fogged mirror,

when words fall so hard

from a slapping screen door?

 

that soft skin,

gathered like wrinkled blankets

beneath each arm,

it is not a sign of prosperity,

she does not raise her chin.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

no other is in want

of a hard bruised shook up

stretch of pale and bone

holding some view of the world

in her wide-knuckled grasp.

 

i am, she says,

a well-wrapped box

of weeds and good intentions,

worn at the seams,

no card attached.

 

but she will never learn

the weight of her own gravity,

she will never see

the blue of the sky

if she never raises her eyes to it.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Poem originally featured on ChowderHead.