Can’t Win
I'm skinny AGAIN
Like I was way back then
Except when I was twenty
And cutting I was never asked
If something was wrong
And now that I'm forty
And divorced
I must be snorting shit up my nose.
My weight loss couldn't possibly be
The reality that I'm no longer
Feeding my feelings
And my metabolism is, has always been,
Was fast, and this "wain" figure
Before you may seem a ghost of the girl
You knew the past ten years
But she was an extra large shell
Of hollow dreams and neglect
Now I'm thin but it wasn't purposeful
I didn't diet I like myself fine
and I get it
You're uncomfortable with whatever size
I might be because
Somehow even now
the size of my body
Explains my character.
How about my body is a container
That holds myself and
I decorate it how I wish
I grow it's size or shrink it
Based on MY need
I wash it and dress it
With my wishes
And no one else gets to decide
The things I must have done
To myself
Because......
I'm troubled
Fucked up
Drugged out
Anorexic
And full of toxins
Like if you knew me
That would be any measure
Of the reality I'd seek
How about I was two hundred six pounds
And happy in my skin
Despite the state my heart was in
And my body changed with medication,
Yoga, illness, surgery, a lack of appetite
And now I'm one hundred twenty pounds
And still happy in my skin
So please stop telling me
What box you'd like me to fit in
Especially since no matter
The shape I am larger
Than your mind
And the tiny wrapper
It resides in
the esplanade
there were three wooden doors
before the one that led to
your quiet bedroom
with the black and gray quilt
there were glossy trumpet notes
that floated upwards
past your window
jarring and incandescent
there were lights that scattered
dancing and howling above us
red like warm hands
blue like your sweater
there were those soft ways
you took my unmade, fumbling heart
and stuck it back together
with a little spit and some dreams
there were pearly afternoons
on castle island
watching planes take off in pink light
while you fed me milkshakes
there were starchy nods from first martyrs
four hundred twenty two steps
upon saint stephen's street
from your door to my window
i'm sorry you suffered
there are times now when
i put my mouth on the mouth
of some man whose eyes
remind me of yours
they have a bit
of the frozen Charles in them
but the dirty ice
isn't quite thick enough yet
to stand upon
Risk
We measure ourselves on dark days
Against love of the past
Against the dark rumble of seasons
Lost words on deaf ears
Interrupted seconds that slip
I measure myself against all you love
Or have loved
Or will love
Feeling flat and lifeless against the grid
It's easier to withdrawal
In this measure
To collapse within
Where I am free
Where I am never disappointed
Where I am never accountable
To anyone but myself
Gen-X is 30 Something
I can remember times
Where the only lines drawn
Were on broken glass top tables
From second hand stores
In first apartments
On third floors
When our only inhibition
Was the fear of being found a fraud
For having reservations
And slight hesitations
Of being the first generation to die for the
un-cause
Of self
Something changed
Was it us
Them
Or are we all still the same
Suburban poison mixed at twice the rate
The lethal dose
Two point five kids and a pension
Collagen and perfect tits
To ease the tension
Of a receding life-line
To confidence
Holding on to murky truths
With popular politics
And obscure tattoos
Because somehow if it's permanent
If you can snap a million self-portraits
Then you don't need to bother with proof
Vicarious belonging
Widens the voids for longing
And desperation
To fill the hole with dirt
And other decaying matter
Helps us hide the lie
That only our life matters
And therefore only we
Can be hurt
