i am endlessly tired of being used.
i am furious with the ways you expect
to have what you need, want, prefer from me.
i’m not your blanket, your noose,
your carrot-on-a-string.
i’m not your fuck toy, your practice dummy,
your tissue paper, your anti-cover girl.
i’m not your punching bag, your airbag,
your parachute, your chew toy,
your option b, or c, or d.
she told me
(stretching my neck forcefully with gentle hands
while i tried - and mostly failed - to relax
to let her take my tendons with no resistance)
that i was compensating for something
in the arch of my head, the dipping of shoulders
and in the way my bones and muscles played below my skin.
i could have told you that,
i almost said.
i worry about my beauty;
then i worry that i am worrying about such a thing as beauty.
i am losing roads as i bite my nails,
smoke from the starter’s pistol long since faded.
i am learning not to be nice.
i am learning how to walk tall.
it can be amazing the life lessons i learn from serving.
i think perhaps because it is a job that so often took me out of my comfort zone and
continues to challenge me.
it is shallow, though.
you can drown in a kiddie pool
and i want to swim in the ocean.
