this is a quiet acknowledgement
of running a hand over skin to see if it is soft
and over a body to see if it is full
and of measuring the size and even the consistency of breasts
and of taking close-ups at odd angles to trick the camera
into believing someone is beautiful

this is a quiet breaking of an unwritten rule
to keep things silent that should not have to be silent
to put on paper the things that happen behind closed curtain,
under insulating cover.  to deny those moments just trying
to believe those words you always try to say:


            'i'm happy with my body'


because like hell you are but at least you try
in the shower when you have to be naked and you can't help but wonder
when someone else one day sees all of you like that,
if they'll feel like you do about it or if that was just all
in your head

this is a quiet confession
of putting on makeup that cakes and peels away layers of honesty
of spending time pushing-up shaving-off and hiding
and of looking in the mirror naked trying to convince something inside you
that that is something beautiful in front of you and maybe you can love it

it's a hard thing to love,
with all the little things like
a birthmark on your shoulder
and a dark spot from when you were little that will never go away
and the hair way down where you don't feel like thinking of or touching
or scraping off with an angry blade ripping, ripping away

and it's on the quizzes and questions everywhere
not just in the counselors' offices and the self-esteem tests
but in the ads that say buy this and wear these that are really
testing you asking you that question you hate


            'are you happy with your body?'


and you never know which bubble to fill in

there is something you lack and you are not sure what
fruitlessly you search for it in the mall, where they tell you,
            here, we will put on some makeup samples and tell you if you're pretty
     and here, go in the fitting room and we will tell you if you're pretty
     and here is a fortune teller to let you know why your future will be dismal
            because can't you see in the mirror your ass looks too big in that?

but it will not be found in these faces.  only in the deepest roots of you.

this is a quiet confession that i cannot seem to get out right
it is a quiet telling of times when i have felt perhaps ashamed, embarrassed
though with an audience of just myself
and of feeling a need to expel thoughts of what i have done
which is only just to want to be able to love myself in truth:

but the mirror seems stained with my nakedness and my scrutiny
i want to hide from myself
want to be someone else




(and why do you not shave your armpits
is it because you fancy yourself a rebel

no it is because i like being a mammal)

just desperately begging for passage,
let me in let me in I say to myself, won't let myself in…
I feel a little pretty when my hair is wet &
I am clean/purity/perfect/nonexistent/tangible

I find myself a little off (but maybe I'm a little on)
and puberty is a cruel mistress
(is it too much to ask
for a little symmetry?)

clean/pretty girls don't masturbate and they don't think about
boys and girls and what they want to do with them
or cry when they are naked
because it hurts a little to face

I've lost the power of sweet metaphors, of
pretty turns of phrases and
clever letters,
all I've left is

my stark bare
naked/clean/pure
dirty
thoughts.