the book lies open in your lap
set aside
as I bend over you
to rub my nose, my lips
against the stubble on your cheek
needing to feel you physically
and express my love for all that you are
how many times each day
do I think in my head
“god I love this man”
which is as it should be
all of you is what anchors me
and heals me from all that has come before
I am not the butterfly
but the chrysalis
after the butterfly has emerged
empty
void of feelings
the beauty contained within has flown away
leaving nothing but a shell
which dances in the breezes of life
I make myself sick
almost
with my desperation
of wanting to know
tell me
show me
prove to me
I have to know
exactly
how much you care
I re-read
I pick apart
searching for a hidden meaning
Wanting to know
exactly
what you mean by
telling me you care
telling me I am your oasis
telling me that some days I am the only thing which brings you joy
I feel like I tell you
constantly
in no uncertain terms
exactly
how I feel about you
But always
dancing
tip-toeing
pussyfooting
around
the word I really want to say (and hear)
LOVE
*This piece has been sitting in my drafts folder for over two years. It’s a good example of the anxiety I go through when I become involved in a relationship. Or maybe, it’s only when I become involved in a relationship which I know isn’t good for me. I need to do some cleansing. . .of my possessions, of my writing, so this is the start. Honestly, I think this was still in the drafts folder because it’s complete drivel.
Dear Sports Illustrated,
Thanks for throwing us curvy girls a bone by putting the beautiful Ashley Graham on the cover of your swimsuit edition.
Know why I call it a bone? Certainly not because she doesn’t deserve the cover, because anyone can see she is devastatingly beautiful, but because it seems you didn’t feel a curvy girl deserved to have the only cover.
Oh, you’re trying to cover up that fact by claiming “diversity” and “representation” through having not one, but three covers, and touting it as “history making”, but a curvy girl can see right through that shit.
What you’re “representing” is your inability to nut up and put a curvy girl on the one and only cover for fear of what your readers will say, even though I guarantee you a large amount of them would likely pick her cover over the others.
Let’s get real about what your swimsuit issue is: ass cheek and side boob shots, and spillage from barely there swimwear. Basically, it’s soft core porn, so really, you’re the last piece of journalism I’m looking to to represent a diverse sector of women.
And honestly, I was a little sad when I read the following quote by Ashley:
“I thought Sports Illustrated was taking a risk by putting a girl my size in the pages,” Graham said. “But putting me on the cover? They aren’t just breaking barriers; they are the standard now. This is beyond epic.”
One cover amongst three, does not barrier break, nor a standard make. It says, “we didn’t have the balls to give you your own cover”.
So why don’t you fuck right off SI.
Sincerely,
Curvy Girls Everywhere
Ash Wednesday
was merely you stamping out your cigarette
and me standing there watching
as the last of the smoke escaped your lips
unable to give you up
for any sort of ridiculous religious conviction
atheist or otherwise
my sins paled in comparison to yours
and left me feeling pious and righteous
never worried about whose left hand I would be sitting at
when all was said and done
the food and the fucking both taste so much better
when someone tells you you can’t have them
so pour your communion wine into the dip of my shoulder
my belly button
and drink of life’s blood
drown out the trumpet sounds drifting through the windows
and toss aside all the beads
our Mardi Gras will never end
I’m 8 years old and imagine the Valentine I receive from the cute boy in the class was specially made for me, but mine looks just like all the others.
I’m 17 years old and hope against hope they’ll call my name over the intercom to come to the office on Valentine’s Day because I know that will mean I got flowers or a balloon from a guy, but it never happens.
I’m 28 years old and my husband brings me flowers and chocolates and a card, but the words have no meaning because our relationship has been over almost since it began.
I’m 37 years old and my boyfriend buys me perfume and a balloon and he leaves it outside my door because I’ve kicked him out again, trying to break free of his emotional abuse.
I’m 47 years old and I buy myself a steak and a good bottle of whiskey and a funky new hair color to try because I deserve good things and every girl needs to be her own Valentine.
undercover spy
private eye
double agent
mole
smooth criminal
schooled in espionage and capable of assuming various personalities
covert ops
surveillance
lurking
slinking
wiretapping
staking it out
But the jig is up, James Bond
you’ve been
found out
discovered
exposed
unveiled
recognized
No more pussy galore for you
I dared to voice an opinion on Twitter today regarding Jay-Z, and quickly learned he has some sort of posse just waiting in the wings to jump to his defense.
What did I say that drew the ire of so many that I had to block people and delete the tweet?
I merely stated that instead of spending money on 10,000 roses for Beyonce, that he should have given the money to charity.
The hell you say!! How dare you!
Don’t you know he donated $1.5 million to charity?
Okay, that’s great. High five.
Of course, when you and your wife are worth a combined $1 billion, what’s $1.5 million? It’s a drop in the bucket, and charitable donations are tax write-offs.
However, what I said had nothing to do with Jay-Z’s record of charitable giving, because I’ve never researched it fully and there doesn’t seem to be much online information regarding total numbers, and it didn’t attack his character, but it seems that’s the way it was taken.
You see, when I saw the news article, my mind started clicking, thinking about the cost of that many roses.
I quickly did some calculations, because this is how my mind works:
10,000 roses x approx $2 per stem = $20,000
$1 = 11 meals at Feeding America x 20,000 = 220,000 meals
That’s full bellies for 220,000 kids instead of 10,000 roses which have probably already started to droop and die.
So to all the haters who I had to block because they thought they needed to be derogatory and call me names, and tell me to “shut the fuck up” as opposed to starting a discourse, I’m sure Jay-Z will stop by your house any day now to thank you personally, and you can bask in the glory of defending him from little ‘ol me, better known now as the “lonely bitch”.
I will continue to stand by my belief that $20,000 could’ve been used in a much more productive way.
the water is closing in
but i keep flailing my arms
i try to will my legs to move
try to remind myself
that there are people who need me
i must fight to stay afloat
swim
i tell myself
swim
you pathetic, weak bitch
you haven’t survived this long
to go down without a fight
but
the shore is nowhere in sight
how can i save myself
if i can’t see the land
and
i wish you were here
to pull me out of the waves
but
the reality is
you can’t save me
you’re not my life preserver
or my personal flotation device
and
your own boat
threatens to capsize in stormy seas
*Originally posted on The Fat Bottom Bard
Son,
Today is your 15th birthday, and I’m very proud of the young man you’re becoming, but it doesn’t make me miss the little boy any less.
I miss your questions and your belief that I still had things to tell you, because it’s been replaced by you thinking you know it all and you have nothing left to learn from me, or the world.
I miss your smiles and your genuine joy at seeing me when I’d been away for short periods of time, because it’s been replaced by your seemingly nonchalant demeanor about us now being separated by miles.
I miss your little hand in mine and your excitement and readiness to go anywhere with me, as everything was always an adventure, because it’s been replaced by your attitude that nothing is ever much fun and you’d rather sit home and play video games or read.
I miss your snuggles and hugs and little boy smooches, because even now when you hug me you never squeeze me as tight as you did when you were little and uninhibited about showing affection.
But most of all, today I miss you because you’re halfway across the country and I can’t run into your room this morning yelling Happy Birthday and telling you once again about the day you were born and how it was the best day of my life.
Just so you know, I’ll always see that little boy every time I look in your face, even when you’re 40.
I love you!!!
Mom
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