Passing?

I wake every morning to a reflected image of a wilted flower, once so beautiful and full of life. Now it crumbles into something ugly and unrecognizable, denying any evidence of physical attraction. That’s how things seem to work here on Earth; to thrive you must be cared for, or at least bothered with, every other week or so as the bare minimum. I comb my petals and lather my stem longing to provide a green pigment. A bright green tinge that screams PICK ME, I AM BEAUTIFUL. A coat of chlorophyll, that's all I require; it goes without saying that you must be alive in order to be perceived to be alive. Maybe physically I sit at the top shelf in the liquor cabinet, a shot closer to numbness which mostly passes as happiness. Cigarettes and loneliness take up a lot of my schedule, right next to my self deprecating humor and smoking weed, like a lot of weed. If I do not laugh at myself, how will I ever learn to laugh while others are laughing at me for the reason that my beliefs do not match theirs? I am the anomaly, an outlier, a wallflower in a room full of roses.

I turn away from the mirror in the morning, stare at the faucet attached to the sink attached to the same wall the mirror lies. My hand grabs for my morning medicine, popping zoloft and wellbutrin, swallowing my depression and, of course, my pride. Like a coy chameleon, I camouflage my true colors to pass as “normal”. We use the excuse of normalcy to dull our true nature and take form of whatever parts are deprived of originality. I am like a coconut not yet opened. My shell is hard and tasteless (and a bit hairy), but on the inside I am sweet like ambrosia not meant for gods, but for the one who will nourish me. And once I feel whole, my hips will crack open, the shell spilling my sweet nectar down my thighs and into the mouth of my beloved. How will anyone know about what is on the inside if they can’t get passed what is on the outside? The lumps of fat I lack upon my chest and the flower that has not yet appeared between my legs do not make me feel any less female than my sisters, but rather a bit more like my brother. My DNA is flawed because I am flawed. I didn’t choose to be a girl trapped in a prison, expected to assume the position of my father.

I want to feel pretty; to feel accepted and comfortable in my own skin. To look in the same mirror in that bathroom and think to myself, “Damn, I look fucking good” and then almost accidentally blind myself with a cheek bone’s excessive highlight. I want my body to curve like the winding road I take while driving home from a long day at work. Most of all, I want to crack at the surface, exposing my ambrosia. I am already here, it just takes a little work to open me up, but once i do, he’ll beg for more. Each time I will grow greener and stronger than before, and appear to have at least a semblance of life inside of me. One day I will be a thick garden inside and out, and all of the hate and sadness will blur into the sidelines to express the fruits growing abundantly, bright red plum tomatoes sprouting just in time for harvest. I will be a person of every color, and my rainbow will be bold and vibrant for the storm is finally over.

Until then I will conceal to heal. Stuff my bra with silicone lumps, and paint my face in order to be seen as I see myself even without makeup. I’ll manage to smile to hide the verge of tears, pooling around the whites of my eyes never quite reaching a tear duct to escape. Tuck away the parts of me I wish I never had to begin with, and slip into high waisted shorts and a crop top. My hair not quite long enough to “pass”, so I sport expensive extensions that never do me justice. My lips dark and red, eyes shadowed, face contoured, nose, cheekbones, and brow bone reflecting a rose gold highlight. Maybe one day someone will love me, grip the curve from my waist to my hips, and gently press their lips against mine. Maybe one day, he’ll see me. Not what’s just on the outside, but all of me. I will be whole.

 

Poetry Slam: 
This poem is about: 
Our world

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