Until They Both Knew Better
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?
Constructive Criticism Welcome
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.
Leaves of orange, burnt red,
ocean green, pale yellow.
Freshly cooked odors wafting throughout,
family gathered in tales of days past.
This is a day to give more than thanks;
a day to carry onto other times.
Turkey sliced, steaming glazed yams,
and a pumpkin pie awaits you.
a day of giving and receiving both.
May all your lives be filled with grace, love, tenderness, and kindness.
We have been through a rough patch, but we made it this far.
My hope is that you all walk away from this holiday, not just with a full
belly, but filled with great things that await each and every one of you.
The fronds fall,
Eventually nearly tan,
Some writes are planned out methodically,
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,
numbly depressing silence,
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.
It’s Menses Day!
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
I’m new here.
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!
Ode to SugarSnap- Our Silent Love.
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
silky strands of
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