Dear Woman Inside

Flaps of skin.
Beneath my pits
Above my Tits
Where my ass sits

blanketing my seat
shadowing my eyes
bordering my smile
A beauty in disguise.

My body changes
but a child inside
I search high and low
where that woman hides

She's supposed to be confident
She's supposed to be ready
Her stance courageous
Her eyes steady

I await her fury;
The paradigm afire
To tell me I'm perfect
To steer my desire

Where is the woman?
I long for her still
There's a hole in my image,
I need her to fill

I'm a girl with dark circles
A skin tag at my ribs
A writer in theory
and a waitress to live

I'm a girl, yet with crow's feet
Crow's that scramble and loom
They balk at my sagging
My impending doom

They squeal at my misfortune
Like twenty-two on the fly
Where is this monumental woman
Who holds her head so high?

I'm a girl; I'm afraid
I don't know where I stand
I hold neither money or photoshop
in my wrinkled hand

I have warts on my feet
and acne scars on my cheeks
I'm imperfect, and I'm strong
See me cry, hear me speak

This is my body,
And this is my soul
I appear put together
But I'm not in control

My supposed to's are weary
My desires still sound
I'm searching, I'm stunning
I'm not easily found

May the magazines be used
As fuel to my flames
I'll set fire to the pressures
of the woman untamed

Come out, Come out
Where you claim to reside
Come to me
Dear woman, inside

Throw that Word Around

What the hell happens when you stop believing in yourself? What next? I can't help but despise all those dickwits in the world who mistake melancholy for depression; those unenthusiasts who just need a trip to the gym, or a day off, or a good lay or a laugh or a fucking night out on the town, some chocolate, some sleep, some down time, some up time, some, god fuck you and your glumness.

When you don't want to live, really, truly, want no part in life. When your dirty and hungry and smelly and pale and you can't laugh, you're too tired to move your mouth, throw that word, that filthy, loathed depression around. Throw that word around. There is no such thing as the functioning depressed. When the meds, the nights out, the exercise, the good laugh and the chocolate is no longer doing the trick and all you want is for it all to end, throw that fucking word around.

Your blue is not my black, your frown is not my agony, your sluggishness not my hopelessness. No, I don't think I have it worse than anyone else, I think I'm lacking. I have nothing tangible to display, to bring forth your sympathies. I am not a pretty face or a falling legacy. I'm just an everyday person, a pair of feet on the pavement, a woman in line at the grocery store buying tampons at exorbitant prices from greedy men's fingers and better cover up for my wrinkles and acne and bags and sadness and inferiority. There is nothing poetic or nobel behind my tears. Basic and breathing and filled with regret and ashamed for those passed too soon, not ready to go, I would give them my body and my health and my beauty, gladly, gratefully, to see it all in the hands of the deserving. Gladly. Gladly.

Why the hell am I here?