Medusa
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.