Tag Archives: girl

Irrational Being

she wakes to lavender
pooling in all her fleshy,
sorry nooks.

she had the dream
of all dreams last night:

staring through a dirty wine glass
like a drunken fortune teller
she saw life as it could be
by the softening glow of
holiday lights in city summer.

somewhere far from here
for the first time
she was good enough.

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girl

 

girl headed

down south

to forget

girl headed down south

with a crushed pack

of cigarettes

and a warm bottle

of water from her

mother’s kitchen tap

 

girl used to

catch fireflies

with those hands

girl used to quiet

laughter with those hands

now they’re

soft as the

floorboards

in her uncle’s bedroom

 

girl thumbs it

halfway to

nowhere

shoulder to

shoulder

with somebody

in the hot

cab of a pickup

truck

 

girl lets

her eyes close

for a moment

for an hour

girl is still while his

hand swears in

on her thigh

she pays him

in her sleep

 

girl is smoking

her last cigarette

on a park bench

girl is waving goodbye

to him

her uncle’s bedroom floor

the last drop from

mother’s kitchen tap

the stale life on her tongue

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the meaning of life

9ad6ic

 

 

time is trivial

for the girl who crashes

like so many waves

on the borders

of her own skin.

 

knees locked,

still as a r t

her eyes scale buildings

breath and life,

from behind

the collapsing

smoke screen.

 

drink her in.

 

she is the framework of

curious endeavors.

her static lips host

gatherings

on the meaning of life.

 

back inside she

kneels in the foyer

bows her head

at the mirror

takes off rain boots

like delicate jewels.

 

suddenly

it’s morning,

and she is nesting

in the feathers

from the pillows

she c-sectioned with

a butter knife.

 

the living room is

pale

like winter

and she is b r e a t h l e s s .

 

on hands and knees

she armies to the kitchen

puts on a pot of tea

gets back in bed

listens for the

high-pitched whistling of

solitary

life.

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Filed under Uncategorized, Writing

Daily Post: Syncing the Selves

Look in the mirror. Does the person you see match the person you feel like on the inside? How much stock do you put in appearances?

 

I’ve blogged about body image before; when something sits on your shoulder from the time you wake to the time you close your eyes, how can it not wiggle its way into your writing? My feelings about myself are on my tongue, in my fingertips, in my hips when I’m shimmying into a pair of jeans.

So, does that girl I see in the mirror match the girl in my chest? Sometimes. Only sometimes. They like to tango back and forth, one rising to the surface while the other sleeps for a while. I could catch my reflection in the kitchen window and smile at how my hair curves just above my eyebrows that day. But then, the lights inside could simultaneously be off and that version of me just below the skin could be stumbling blindly around trying not to stub her toe on anything.

Other times I find myself glowing so brightly I’d swear you could see the sun behind my eyes, but looking in the mirror you’d only guess I was hurting. Straight lips, slumped shoulders, bad hair, bad outfit. I like the way I look just after a shower, fresh faced. Thankfully the mirror above the medicine cabinet doesn’t allow for anything I wouldn’t like to look at. Being short has its perks. Out of sight, out of mind. Sometimes.

It’ll be a forever-struggle, desperately trying to sync up those two layers of self. Once in a while there is a glimpse of that girl – a complete 360 of courage, confidence, happiness. It’s like the possessed, floundering in moments the Devil loses his grip and allows them to break through and cry for help, before going under again. Maybe that’s a bit much, but you get the point. For some it’s that serious.

As for stock in personal appearances? I fully believe that how you look on the outside is sometimes a reflection of how you feel on the inside. I also believe that we sometimes cover what we believe is inner ugliness with nice clothing and lots of lipstick (if you’re a woman…but even if you’re not, too!). But who doesn’t immediately feel somewhat better when they slip into a cute outfit?

I want to embrace my imperfections and rename them as gifts that are only mine to have.

xoxo,

Nicole Marie

How do you feel when you look in the mirror? How do you feel on the inside? Is it a perfect match?

 

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