Mom, I do not want

to wear pretty clothes that hang

off my frame and remind you

I am not fat, that remind you

you are. I do not want to rejoice,

the way you do, that we

are not the same, I am lucky,

and splendor in my body.

Its shape deceives me. I am to be

happy in all this body rightness.

Right curve at the crook in my thigh

where it meets my pelvic area,

just like the underwear models,

indented, smooth. I do not want to rely

on all this body rightness

but I am given no other way. So I know

I am happy because my clothes are loose,

because I am one small size

from head to toe, with a minor curve

behind me and narrow places

praised below my rib cage.

I don’t know what to do

with all this rightness that does

not make me happy, that does

not make me feel anything at all

other than not not okay like

my girlfriends whose torsos are larger,

squishy, go out where commercials say

they should go in. So I know,

at least I do not have that to worry about.

Until all this okayness shows up

at the roller rink in 8th grade in slim jeans,

in a half shirt, in the way I stand a particular way

to see who notices all my okayness and makes me

feel like I am something I have not considered

wanting to be or not. Doesn’t everyone

want to be ok?

Dear Prose community. I have thouroughly enjoyed being a part of this platform. The amout of creative thought, artistry and support for other writers has been inspiring. My goal this winter is to simply write more. I have been on hiatus and am feeling a bit rusty. Time to transfer some of the thousands of hours reading into some time writing my own tales.

I just wanted to say, well, criticize away. As long as it has purpose and isn't just "this sucks" I would love any input folks are willing to give.

Once tender,

The fronds fall,

Softly,

Sadly,

Eventually nearly tan,

Expiring tragically,

Toughened,

Fatally,

Finished.

Some writes are planned out methodically,

Chosen; wanted.

Others are the baffling consequence of instinctually pleasureable acts.

...

Some are cared for optimistically, dotefully,

Washed gently and swaddled in adorable fuzzy-blanketed lines,

Well nourished with the most healthy, natural phrasing possible

(depriving the responsible writer of caffeine and alcohol)

Only to repay the (now hope-shattered and incredulous) conceiver

with Endless Grammatical Screaming For No Apparent Reason,

badly timed pukey rhyme,

cradle-capped syntax,

numbly depressing silence,

shitty metaphors...

And we’ve all been ashamed of the spoiled ones of course:

Those puffed up snippets of bratty good-for-nothings,

Flattered into a puerile delinquency by pompously proud pamperers.

...Surely no writer wants that.

Neither do we want to stifle or restrict them too much,

Regurgitating nothing but automatons of traditional verse...

Verbally battering our innocent new thoughts into submission...

Nay, we must (at least occasionally) allow them to play.

Even when they are comprised of rambunctiously beastly ideas,

(Ideas which jump up and down for attention; distracting the writer from very important cleaning which needs to be accomplished in a timely manner; preferably before the in-laws arrive for the holiday and realize what an idiotically sappy artistic slob their son married... But I digress.)

Because one day you’ll look up from your egotistical musings and regard these things (...these separate entities which can no longer be reasonably considered a part of you...) in a realistic but tender light.

And you'll scarcely believe that such wonderous creativity could possibly have had it’s origins in your disagreeably imperious and paltry-thoughted pen.

In the end,

Though they may turn out to be nothing more than an indecipherable mix of embarrassing honesty, chaotic energy and brashly-flung sentimentality,

It is never really a choice;

To create them,

Or to love them.

Celebrating the 28 day cycle of the crimson curse.

The pagan holiday of Mensesus has been celebrated worldwide for centuries. Originally believed to be a sacrificial ritual, it was once common tradition to kill and consume a pubescent girl who'd just begun the the 40 year bleed. She would be crafted into a hearty stew, and shared during the public festival. This was done with the belief that the blood would fortify the women over the following 11 estral full moons.

Today, we obviously omit the killing and cannabalism of young ladies. Now in place, a stew made of rare lamb is served, generally with a side of blood pudding..

Ornate festooning of trees and mantle-pieces with all matter of feminine products is still a favorite element of Mensesus. Decorating the Tampon Tree is a fun way to bring families together on this special holiday.

Now off to the parade! Sanguinate women don themselves with costumes in a rainbow of reds, from burgundy to Maraschino cherry. They are then carried through the center of town, shouldered by a male of their choosing. Some women choose their husbands or sweethearts, but it is not an uncommon practice to utilize a mailman or neighbor.

This serves in part to celebrate the woman herself, and to remind non-females of the constant weight a woman must bear. Modern times allow for one woman to carry another woman, a right hard won by angsty bleeding feminists in the early 1900's. Mensesus closes with a vibrant

Hello! My name is Amber and I just joined this and am so excited to start writing again. I took a long break from my writing passion to be a full-time stay-at-home mom to my three kids. I'm already feeling inspired here! I love writing creatively! Short stories and poems are my favorite forms of writing but I have dreams of writing a fantasy book series one day!

During a tumultuous patch in my last relationship, I was faced with an ultimatum. I could keep you, or move out. In a flash of clarity, I knew the relationship was over. Nobody who knows and loves me would try to take you from me. Needless to say, we were taking your first ferry ride to the mainland forthwith.

You were born bilaterally deaf. It had to do with your lack of pigmentation. That made you unsaleable product to the prestigious breeders from whence you came. It was you who first caught my attention. Your atypical behavior set you apart from your frolicsome littermates. While they bouncily played with each other in groups, you walked the fenceline of the yard alone, collecting olfactory clues, 3 fluffy white pounds of lone wolf.

I had visited your breeder ready to spend $1,500 for my perfect puppy. Upon declaring that it was you I wanted, the breeder shook her head. "That one isn't for sale." Her words impregnated with reticence. "Already spoken for?" I queried. Sighing, she replied "She's deaf. As registered AKC breeders, we cannot accept monetary compensation for a defective puppy." What nerve, to label you defective!

I insisted, I must have you. You were given to me, for free. That day, I ended a bad relationship, saved $1500, and gained a uniquely communicative companionion. To you, your name was two bangs on the floor. Vibration was understandable. We learned together. Our conversations were textural, inaudible. Truly, a love beyond words.

one time tempted

first finger

slowly

softly

Enters

new territory

Exits

trembling

taboo forgotten

forever

silky strands of

hope

crushed by those who walk upon me

the one who said no one needed me here

that said i was a rug worth hanging

maybe i shouldn't have listened

but i shouldn't have had to cover my ears

to get the ringing words out ove my soft strings

now my colors are dull

and i hang limp and tired