After achieving my shining goal,
I am not sure if I have
the sadness
to keep up
the apparent brilliance
that
let
me
in.
After a long and tiring debate about ethics
(that bordered on an argument)
I could only come to one conclusion:
I still have a smart mouth that snaps, uncontrolled,
at those who dare
to disagree with me-
the smoking, paranoid dragon of my wit.
learning to paint,
a
i am still stuck between the stage where the paint is lost in translation between
the brush, my mind and the surface and
there is no longer any brush,
where my ideas just flow from my fingertips,
and i don’t have to worry about
flat round hog hair sable or what have you.
As a fourteen year old, I remember,
fighting horribly with my fellow girls.
Our worlds fractured in the confined space of high school classes,
and once I was so sad I ran out of class,
embarrassed by the simple fact that
they had the power
to make me
cry.
a
One time I crouched behind the buildings, near the back of the school
and cried to myself, until my friend found me
and my puffy snotty face.
a
We spoke for a while about why I hate so-and-so and, near the end,
I remember saying:
“I hate this,”.
yesterday i walked around our studio,
put one post-it in everyone’s space,
telling them something that i liked about them.
it was meant to be anonymous, but a girl found out who it was,
and told everyone who asked that i did it.
it doesn’t make me angry,
or stop me from feeling happy about what i did,
a
a
a
a
but you know.
it just changes things.
Browsing through old poetry can only end in misery and head shaking! I shouldn’t have done that.
I’ve become so used to my face,
so used
to the marks and
discolourations,
That I can put on make up without
looking at my own reflection,
staring back,
reminding me,
of the things
I never liked
about myself.
