me and my body

do not get along.

we squabble

like snakes biting

at the scalp they emerge from.

when i was nine,

the boys on the bus called me

medusa,

because i was

"the ugliest creature

in the world."

i used to wish

they were right

so i could look them in the eyes

and turn them to stone.

when i was sixteen

i learned

medusa's story all over again,

a survivor, rebelling against

the men who tried to control her

and the women who tried to blame her.

and i found solace

in knowing

that i could survive, too,

even if it twisted me

into a monster.

like medusa,

me and the mirror

are enemies,

its surface threatening

to freeze me in place.

it is wielded like a weapon

waiting for the right moment

to sever my head,

my brain leaving my body

and taking refuge somewhere far away.

i have been told

i am ugly

i have been told

i am broken

i have been told

who i am supposed to be:

a monster,

deformed, misshapen.

but it is up to me

to decide

how i use their words.

i can treat it like a mortal wound,

nurse my grievances

in the darkness of isolation.

or i can turn it around

and fight back,

turning their expectations

to stone

so they can't hurt me anymore.

You speak of being offended by toxic positivity as you sit there in your Carhartt beanie choking down a chai latte.

As if you knew the impact of a “you should smile more.” Or “it can’t be that bad, cheer up!”

when you’ve just had your lip split open by a baseball bat. You never had blood gushing from your brow on the wet pavement or the world reject you. You have never known the courage it takes to stand up and start again with nothing but your integrity.

The worst thing that has ever happened to you was not getting exactly what you wanted from a phone call to mommy.

So yeah, fuck you and your entire facade. Trying to coin sympathy from a phrase that you could never possibly understand.

You just needed

To cleanse the palate

Something neutral

And fairly bland

It was nothing personal

…I understand

Open, all is cracked,

Wispy eyes and a hushed face

quiet tears are split.

My first step towards

I call a place, nothingness,

what they call a life?

I breathe in unknown,

surrounded by the warmth, friend

cracked heart or fire ball.

My hands are worn, burnt

thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, doom

count the seconds past.

Restless heart, could stop

old, wrinkled, may skin be dry.

Pierced soul, wounded deep.