volume i.
a portrait of my sixth-grade self
~
~
Eleven-year-old fingers
swollen with baby fat
dig into the gaudy sheen
of turquoise eyeshadow
encased in a shattered compact.
I apply the pigment--
erratic smudges
extending
from lash line
to just below untamed brows.
The blue powder accentuates the swirls
of my fingerprints in
dizzy
pirouettes.
But you can't quit your own skin
like you can quit ballet lessons.
I am in the sixth grade
when the Popular Girls
in my class tell me
that if I want to get a boy to like me,
I have to change the way I look.
So I abide by the rules of the
Unofficial Mean Girl Doctrine:
{no. 1}
I mustn't wear sweat pants,
these sloppy Old Navy rags
that I have owned for three years.
See,
denim is superior to cotton
even though it leaves
cavernous indentations on my stomach.
Sweat pants forgive
the extra swell of your waistline.
Denim punishes you
for what you don't have,
more specifically
for what you have too much of.
I ask my mom for skinny jeans;
perhaps if I can
shrink all of my Too Much
into this blue, unyielding fabric
I will feel thinner than I actually am.
(I don’t tell her this.)
We buy the skinny jeans from Old Navy.
{no. 2}
My signature high ponytail is
unacceptable.
I should wear my hair down,
they profess.
I am not sure if this is
because of the tufts of frizz
that loom over my scalp
like dandelion seeds
(I wish... I wish... I wish...)
or if this is just a necessary ritual
in the abandonment of my girlhood.
After I unsheathe my curls
from their rubber-band Bastille,
their trial commences.
My ringlets slither
in hostile circulations,
executing frequent detours
away
from anyone who might scoff
at their animalistic bedlam.
If only I could will
my spectators to stone.
Instead,
I settle for a flat iron.
{no. 3}
Do everything in your power to be
Beautiful
including, but not limited to,
the laws indicated above.
Yet,
despite my grandest efforts,
it is never enough.
I am never enough.
I am the Walmart Edition
of what the Popular Girls
want me to be.
With my gaudy eyeshadow
and the cheap Dollar Store bracelets
that I wear around my wrists,
plastic flowers blooming
upon threaded stems
that nip at the hair on my arms.
One day on the bus ride home,
a boy from my class tells me
I am too hairy.
"Huh?" I ask,
pretending I haven't heard him.
"Nothing," he mumbles back to me.
See,
little girls are supposed to play with
jump ropes and Barbie Dolls.
They are not supposed to
play with razors as they strip away
every misplaced hair on their body
or consult Teen Vogue
for the latest beauty hacks
like they are Gospel.
This year of 2011/2012
has been engraved into
the historical road map
of my every insecurity.
The legend of this map,
depicted in smeared globules
of sugar cookie lipgloss,
delivers me to my destination:
self-hatred.
Yes--
this is the year I learn to hate myself.
Mascara stains the
topography of my flesh
in inky, dotted lines
I follow them
and
I plummet
like the eternal run
in my stockings
never to return
from this perception of ugliness.
Image Source:
Barbie dolls burning gif (n.d.). [image] Available at: http://rebloggy.com/post/grunge-barbie-grunge-girl-soft-grunge-grunge-gif-dark-grunge/87420831641 [Accessed 14 Aug. 2019].
#beautiful #beauty #beautystandards #blogger #blogging #broken #childhood #condescension #corruption #darkness #destruction #emotion #fallen #freeverse #girlhood #inferiority #innocence #insecure #insecurity #loneliness #lonely #madness #Medusa #mentalhealth #mistreatment #pain #poetry #punishment #sadness #scars #shame #skin #truth #writing
Comments