Tag Archives: personal

movement

moononwater

[https://i.pinimg.com/originals/1d/7e/91/1d7e914dc8d7ddc86ec378317e83e7e5.jpg]

and here you are living

despite it all 

  • rupi kaur 

 

a weak heart beating in spite of itself.

the sun rising in spite of itself.

 

suddenly there is gratefulness 

in the way you paint your mouth 

in the bathroom mirror.

 

suddenly music has grown 

hands

feet

tongue

movement 

a new necessity

 

loud, louder, drown everything.

 

the hours present like 

ocean waves in your chest

 

breathlessness to appreciation

of silver moon on silver water.

 

the irony lies in the excited chatter of 

birds outside your bedroom window,

their days fuller than yours.

 

your second son kicks you awake 

reminds you of the way your body moves

 

even when you can’t bear the thought of it.

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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

bruised

Quantcast

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

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.

bwme

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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.

anatomy

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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.

bwwedding

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Poem originally featured on ChowderHead.

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“I’ll be out in a minute.”

motel

She checks her innocence at the door, room #324 to be exact, leaves her conscience by the trash can/ash tray with the butts shoved deep into the sand on top. The room smells of cleaner, they’ve been there recently, cleaning up someone else’s mess, tidying things for this man and this woman and God knows what. Fresh sheets, not unused, sex and anger and bodies separated by the night have laid here, what next? Her wool coat shimmies down her shoulders, folds at her elbows and she throws it on the bed, perfect, not perfect, there’s dog hair on the collar. He’s in the bathroom, the light spills out in a single sheet from beneath the door, “I’ll be out in a minute” is muffled by a buzzing sound. “Okay” she says, trying to sound relaxed, she’s not, she’s thinking of the bar, the wine, the music that beat her insides while he asked about her job and she twisted the ring on her left finger. He didn’t notice, he only noticed her eyes, her lips, so he said. He just wanted to talk, so he said. She stares at the sheets for a while, counting the pink diamond shapes while she waits. She could leave, her legs tremble, but she doesn’t. He steps out, a towel in his hand, wiping his chin, hadn’t he worn a beard before? He looks so different now, what am I doing? The lights are dim, still, but an hour ago things looked much brighter. Could I identify this guy in a lineup? “Come here” he says. She hesitates, she twists a corner of the comforter between two nervous fingers, she sits and grabs a pillow and pulls it into her lap. He laughs and pulls it away, to the edge of the bed, it falls to the floor but he doesn’t notice. She does. “What now?” she asks, she really wants to know. “Clothes,” he says, already pulling his off. She does too, but stops after shirt and pants. “I’m nervous,” she admits. “Why?” he asks. He is foreign, his breath smells of whiskey and garlic, there’s a mole on his left cheek she hadn’t noticed before. In the light his shirt is wrinkled, on the floor. He lives alone. “Why?” she repeats. “Kiss me,” he responds. His mouth is on hers before she can decide and he tastes like a cliff-hanger. She tries to talk, her mouth flailing while his presses on and there’s a gap and she bites him but doesn’t mean to, but he’s angry now, she did it on purpose, she must have, but she’s pleading. “No,” she says. “No,” she says again. It’s empty, throwing a rock into an abandoned cave, an echo heard by no one. Really? What will they think now? Her children. “Don’t take it away,” she says. He doesn’t know what she’s talking about. He doesn’t ask. What does he care?

A sit-down to write a Romantic Monday post turned into something quite the opposite….but I decided to go with it anyway.

BUT – go here for a post by the founder of Romantic Monday, and of course links to other Romantic Monday posts.

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