be mindful of the deterioration of your will
and of your spirit
it happens slowly 
not in inches or centimeters
not by any measurable standard
it doesn’t eat away at the outside edges
where it would be easy to spot
no, it starts in the middle and spreads out
replacing each morsel with black, crusted tar
so as not to change weight or circumference
to alert the alarms
so, you just carry on
going to the grocer, the gas station, your work
you sleep, you converse, you doodle and dream
but the doing—the doing of your dreams
is the fraction that fractures, piece by piece
until you’ve atrophied your desire
into oblivion
so…
be mindful of that, yeah?

part of turning 30 this year is
i just don't want to 
talk about
  think about
      hear about
fat and women's bodies
             and my own body
from outside or
             inside my mind
i don't want to be 
so          self-conscious 
about looking fat
     in a photo that
i can't see that 
     in the picture
i'm exuding some 
deeper,
  actual,
     sincere,
beautiful human emotion

i don't want to feel like
working out and eating healthy
are burdens placed upon me
              requirements to be met
for love and notoriety

i want to eat good food
and feel good
work my body in ways
​that express what needs expressing
feel strong and capable
                      and energetic

i don't want to let
my self-worth fluctuate
because of automatic calculations
that compare any image i see of myself
against every other image society
holds up of what a successful, liked,
loved, healthy, sexy woman should be

i've come a long way from my adolescence
and, to be honest, having
public figures who embrace their figures
and more importantly their womanhood
in all its different forms and variations
has been a huge contributor to this personal growth

i look at Lena Dunham and see the life she's created,
her art, her body, which she shares without shame
inside of her art, and more than anything,
i think it was the    lack of shame     she exhibited
while being naked inside of a square where
women are typically not allowed to look
anything less than one, narrow version of
"perfect" that made all the difference

i am not that perfect
i have tried to be
and failed
not because of how i looked
but because of how i looked at myself

currently i wish i looked better
but more importantly,  i  like  who  i  am
i see more worth in who i am and 
what i can give and create than in
                                   what i look like
and that's a nice feeling
my days are much more enjoyable
and fulfilling 
but it's still a fight some days
to remind myself

i think, as women, one of the
best ways we can
help each other overcome decades
of conditioning
is by wearing our bodies  b o l d y
and unapologetically
by shamelessly holding our self worth
in our own hands and acknowledging 
all the different things that make us
feel sexy, full, empowered, and strong

i get so sad when i take a photograph of 
a woman and i see her light and  l o v e  and
happiness in it, the essence of who they are,
and then, when i show it to them, they only see their  f l a w s 
the wrinkles, the aging, the blemish, the fat
and i get even sadder knowing that
the subconscious panic at the root of this
tree of self-critical hate
is the very real fear that no one would 
be able to see them like that, with those flaws
and be able to love them
that makes me not just sad but angry
at a world that has created this life-altering fear
in very young girls
to sell products

so, let me just say this
to both myself and you
because we all know it, but we also forget it 
from       time       to       time
humans are most beautiful 
when they shine straight through their skin
                from    the     heart
and anyone who can't see that
needs a few more trips around the sun

He wore socks
i said
my feeble voice
trembling
as subconsciously
my freshly crisped fingers
brushed up against
my charred, meek mouth
He wore socks
as if that explained 
anything
but in my mind
it did
the detail seared
into my marrow
like a thorn
the news anchor was
setting up
clearing his throat
and passing from
foot to foot
in place
in front of 
the coffee shop
that was now
in fact
just black bare bones
i had heard him
ask the leading questions 
in prep
for the interview with the cafe owner
they were conjuring up
a suspect
on nothing more than
prejudicial speculation
the Homeless man
with dreadlocks
and an iPhone
who laughed to Himself
while reading Jung
sipped coffee
and knew the barista’s name
and tried to help me
wave down my Chai
and whose whole of 
earthly possessions were 
seated to the right 
of His sagging, brown couch thrown
a tall, smelly pile
His own “son of god”
He, whose skin was golden brown
and more creased than modern
time would normally allow
He, who hummed “merrily”
content to sit, be warm
--this was their villain,
and why?
because He: patron non grata
surely looked to have less to lose
than any of the fine dressed
bathed and socially progressive
the housed combatants of civility
surely, surely these college girls
and boys, and work-day wanderers
these friday morning payday chums
who presented proper posturing
surely—none of these could be
hiding sinister objectives
of the blowing up kind
but, He wore socks, i said again
not even shoes for running
His whole home within
and here He was, at last
in warm content
from a bitter cold
—to blow it up?
that made no sense
not that blowings up ever did
but it just seemed to me
He was too easy, too innocent a target
to pin things on
too obvious a dunce 
for the farce of media propensity 
no, you’re wrong, i said
you see, He wore socks
He wore socks...

serenades i am not worthy of
with melting morals and a slippery mind
my, my, my spirits skunked in dirty shrapnel
a life’s worth of worthless collectables
you wouldn’t dare be brave enough to enter
this state i am in
this place beyond the sun where the light and dark
have become one
what would you know about that?
you smile with ease and even your pain is dulled
with your twinkling enthusiasm bubbling up with every
shiny new, new toy
 still, this is what i love in you
yet, what do you do with this love?
you walk away--
unscathed
—are you?
while the darkness opens up the floor beneath me
are you watching?
i’m performing the grand act of mediocre surviving
are you watching?
yes. you are watching.
so, watch this:
serenades i am not worthy of
turned into dusty diamonds i sparkle on myself
my slippery, sanded mind
casting webbed spells
bending every truth into convenient tale
and you won’t ever know me again 
as that girl,
​your girl

the earth spun
at such an angle
as to cause you
crashing
into me
and as the sun rose
your shadow grew
like a cold breeze
blowing over me
and for a time
we wound our rhythms
together; two cicadas singing
in the sap
but the earth’s rotation
was soon too much;
it dizzied us
our love dried up
you took a step back
and the sun hit my face
like a slap
my bare skin burned raw
as i strained to watch you
walk away
too hot to the touch
too easily influenced
by every passing dark spot
my antennae retracted slightly in
i’m fragile, but strong
and i know how to live long
yet transitions like this
take several spins 
to catch on

his fingers ran 

d 

o 

w

n

the side of my belly 
to my h i p
and then…

l

 o

w

e

r

e

d

to the v a l l e y

(between thigh & pussy)

as i
t w i t c h e d
&
s q u e a l e d 
in fermented delight
at the tender loving
t i c k l e

“I love that.
You’re so sensitive to touch.”

He did it 
a g a i n

In the dark
side by side
a  s i l e n c e
& relief

Nothing had changed
between u/s,
and I felt I could
b r e a t h e
again.

*I wrote this poem while listening to this song...feel free to listen as you read.