AlyD
Cement. My feet are planted into the cement. Like a rose. I grow out of the concrete. I grow. I grow. I learn. I expand. Like a bubble. I spread my wings and fly. I spread. I am a mess. I am chaos. I am the stars and the moon. I swallow. I swallow your lies. I eat. I ingest. I digest. I swirl between faith and doubt. My feet are planted into the cement. I break free of the stone. I break. I crack open. I melt. I am open. And its hard to remain pure. When I feel everyone. Since I was a little girl, I always felt so much. I cry watching the tv. Watching the news. I cry. I breakdown. I am a raw woman in a disguse of fuck you’s and paint. Pink paint on my toes. My hair in curlers. I am a raw. I am raw. My flesh holds secrets. I am not perfect and I have tried to be perfect my whole life. The way I wrote. The way I held my pen. I always wished I had blonde hair and blue eyes. The boys would tell me I was too skinny. The girls would not invite me to their bench for lunch. “You’re not welcome here,” she said. Her name was Vanessa. She had long brown hair and long eyelashes. She smacked her gum when she chewed. Her uniform skirt was shorter than it was supposed to be. I could feel the heat of the sun burn into my arms as I held my lunch tray. We stared at each other in the outdoor lunch area. Kids laughing. All I could feel was the weight of not belonging. I was discarded like the crumpled brown lunch bags on the floor. I nodded my head, and walked towards the empty table. I never felt so alone. And desperate. I was desperate for connection. I am desperate. I crave connection. I’m hungry. I need. I need to know that my life means something. I assign myself the meaning. Or maybe it’s given to me and I don’t understand it’s code. The many layers of an onion. And I as I cut into the onion I cry. Maybe that’s what it so painful to go and reveal the many layers the cover my core. Fuck. I cut. I dig. I burn. I reach. I reach for my mom when I’m scared, but she’s not here anymore. Only a ghost. I long to press my fingertips against hers. I long. I yearn. I beg. I bang. I talk loud. I want to be heard. I want flow. I want dignity. I want dignity. I want to be respected for just being human. I have bowed my head too long. It’s one thing to be humble, it’s other to disregard myself. To make myself small. To confine myself into a box. A cardbox box. A black box. Funeral. Death. I don’t want to die small. I don’t want anything from anybody anymore. I just want to be okay with me. And that is okay to spill and be messy. That it is okay to make mistakes. To color outside the fucken lines. To wear pink and yellow and red and blue and polka dots. I am so tired of fucken rules. I am so tired. I am. I am. That’s it. I am here. I am now. And each moment is a miracle. So many things have to collide and take place to sustain this life I am breathing through. Plants yearn for the sun. They yearn for water. Nutrition. I yearn for a hug. A truthful connection. “And maybe” she said. “Perfume.” She held the perfume bottle out to me. The glass bottle fit into the palm of my hand. Sarah had soft skin, red cheeks, and blue eyes. She was hopeful and full of mystery. Her red dress did not match her face. It was past midnight. I felt dizzy from dancing. The sounds of the Brooklyn rave still echoing in my ears. We were in her cheap and bare apartment on 1st ave and 12th street. “I don’t wear perfume, I like my stink.” I said. She smiled. I cried. She held me tight. I could barely breath, but at least I felt free.