Fat Bottom Girl Said What

When my ass talks, people listen.

Archive for the month “August, 2017”

Soul Funerals

You knock on my door

but I know you don’t really want in

so I press my lips to the crack

and speak to you of the skeletons in my closet

trying to frighten you away

but you’re not deterred

and I hear the rap of your knuckles again

I admire persistence

so against my better judgement

I let down my guard and invite you in

the cloying aroma of dying flowers hanging in the air

doesn’t seem to phase you as you cross the threshold

but you give me a quizzical glance

when I ask you to sign the guestbook

as if you don’t understand 

what once lived in me has long since died

there’s nothing here to resurrect

and if there were

it can’t be done with words 

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Ghosts of Prose

The words I thought 

lost

not committed to paper

were tactile in my dreams

they carried the scent of you

the timbre of your voice

your breath upon my neck

the feel of your hands upon my hips

But I woke with a word hangover

ghosts of prose haunting my mind

with no proof they ever existed at all

Biding Time

I feel ugly 

so I cut my hair short

shorter

I try to forget I am a sexual being

because no one desires a woman with shorn locks

And as a woman in my 40’s

I would make a great spy or a serial killer

because I have ceased to be relevant

and no one notices me in crowds

or wants to hear my stories

about the men who did me wrong

So I move in the shadows

because darkness suits me

and I silence my voice

because words seem pointless

and I lie down and wait for the sound

of dirt hitting pine

Clipped Wings

I am the crow

who waits in the parking lot

for the crumbs you dispense as you see fit

Relying on your menu

of falsehearted affection confections

has left me unable to forage for myself

Ruined by fabricated kindness

I am no longer the majestic creature 

I once was

and have taken to dumpster diving to satiate me

because a little something 

is better than nothing at all

Mankind always finds a way

to ruin that which is good

and clip the wings of creatures

having the moxy to fly

Curtain Call

I offered you a handwritten letter

but you had no interest in words penned for posterity

My love for you was an embarrassment

something relegated to the shadows

not shared with the world

Everyone knows anything not given regular sunlight

withers and dies

but that never concerned you

Unbeknownst to me you were an agent

auditioning a whole chorus of girls for your ego show

and I hadn’t made the cut

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