Bitter Heart

"In the desert
I saw a creature, naked, bestial,
Who, squatting upon the ground,
Held his heart in his hands,
And ate of it.
I said, "Is it good, friend?"
"It is bitter - bitter," he answered;
"But I like it
Because it is bitter,
And because it is my heart."

Stephen Crane wrote that. He can see right through me. He's dead but he knows me better than anyone.

Did you ever read a poem and felt like you just underwent an autopsy? Or think "I wrote that like six years ago in my head while curled in a fetal position on my bathroom floor wondering after the whereabouts of my soul"? Or maybe that's just me.

Poetry has a bad reputation. Novels gossip about her behind her back. Everyone says poetry is easy. She'll spread her legs for anyone. She only inhabits the tattered, black and white composition books of angsty teenage girls with fading cuts about the arms and legs and belly. But that's not entirely true.

The best part of poetry is the part that makes you uncomfortable. Words that are so skillfully whittled they make you squirm like a worm on a hook. A good poem doesn't touch your heart like a gooey love song. It gets on your fucking nerves. It makes you want to eat a whole dark chocolate bar, or maybe just give the world one more chance to get it right.

I stopped writing poetry a long time ago. It felt like a lost cause. It started to be that everything I wrote was inferior to everything I read. It was embarrassing. And I cooled off like ice.

I have a tattoo on my lower back. But before you think that I think that you think I'm cool - I don't. It's a chinese symbol. The chinese character for poetry. I don't regret getting a tattoo. I do regret getting that tattoo. In case you didn't know, I'm not Chinese. I don't know why I did it, but now that it's done I'm going to have to spend a lifetime trying to justify this act either by becoming a communist or memorizing the works of Confucius. I also might have to drive the Dalai Lama out of his hometown. Which makes me sad, because he seems like a really great guy.
I think I'm just going to stick with eating sesame chicken on a regular basis.

Anyway, my tattoo probably doesn't even mean "poetry". It probably means "asshole". The tattoo artist who "did" my tattoo seemed like the type of person who would do that on purpose. But I'm not judging. I'm the type of person who would do that on purpose.Like Stephen said, my heart is bitter, bitter. But I like it. Because it is bitter. And because it is my heart.

I Am Not Meant For Womanhood

Current Mood: Looking on the Bright Side of Life

Well, well, well. To my surprise and delight, many have expressed dismay at my planned blog hiatus. While I certainly stand by my position to remain relatively quiet in regards to the negative aspects of my experience, I see no harm in sharing positive insights and anecdotes. So I decided to keep public the blogs that aren't so weighed down in the mire of my chaotic, pessimistic brain.

Last week, after my first fill, my boss' wife commented that I had the bust of a 12 year old girl. And I totally do! It got me thinking about this little poem I wrote when I was about 25, but looking all of 12. I had these scrawny arms and stick legs attached to this frail, puny torso. Amy used to call me a "lollipop". She said my tiny body made my head look huge. It makes me smile in a wicked way to think how afraid I was of womanhood then, even though I was literally knee deep in adulthood by that point. I fought that acceptance of myself as a woman so long and so hard...but in the end nature won. And I'm so glad it did. In the moments when I'm not cursing under my breath about what hurts, I really am very happy to be alive, and also blessed to have a better chance at living a long and happy life. But this poem, still, it makes me smile. It makes me remember who I was at that fixed point in time and what things I was fighting so hard to hold onto. And it reminds me how far I've come. Oh the irony to have breast buds at the age of 32 after that battle to remain a child in body and mind all those years. Or maybe its something only I can appreciate. Either way, here is the poem. I hope you like it.

I am not meant for womanhood
or the hassle of growing up
I'm built for hopscotch and skipping through life
for moonlit giggles and dreaming about being a bride
but not somebody's wife.
My little girl hands
are designed to handle little girl things
like faux but fab jewelry and red candy rings.
My hips are not the birthing hips
my mother said I'd get
but more for carrying baby dolls
and not the real ones yet.
I'd rather wear my sneakers
than silly old high heels
and I prefer a beat up bicycle
than a Volvo for my wheels.
If I could give up dollars
and credit cards, I would.
Then I could pay with candy
Which to me is just as good.
Instead of hours on a treadmill
to make my body slim
I'd play freeze tag with my neighbors
and hit the jungle gym.
In life there are things that we must do
like growing up and getting old.
Since God has said that I must to
I will do what I am told.
But while on the outside
I'll be doing what a good lady does
inside my head I'll always be
the little girl that I was.

Totally corny, huh? But it makes me smile. I hope it made you smile, too. Much love.

The End of The World Is Smaller Than You Think

The end of the world is smaller than you think.
It gropes on shiny days into the batter
calling the creeper towards death
on innocent afternoons.
I ate a tornado for lunch today.
I vomited avalanches into the bowl.
There are universal floods bursting
in every pink pill
and homely portal of potato
with eyes of storms lurking
like leftovers and teabags
steaming their wicked weather into unhealthy guts.
Aromas portend whole world catastrophe
leaking out of sealed pots and bakery chimneys.
I am knee deep in blizzards at breakfast,
cornered by hailstorms of popsicles, meteors, and sugar cubes.
Cruel, wicked joke of a globe.
Consumed by carrots
and a combination of carbohydrates.
Chocolate chip cookies are to blame for disaster
crushing me like a house
under the thumb of an earthquake.
I do not pretend to know aftermath.
I only shield my eyes
from nuclear bomb kitchens
from something out of horror movies
from hurricanes bubbling on the coils.
Armaggedon occurs three times a day.
Plus two snacks.
The Red Cross is not responding to these sorts of emergencies.
~~~~~
So I wrote this poem about six years ago when I was, obviously, immersed in my eating disorder. The reason I resurrect it now? I realize how I haven't really come that far from this cataclysmic attitude towards food. The whole process of selecting food and eating it can still be painful and overwhelming for me psychologically. I can still be racked with guilt for indulging. I still equate victory with restriction. Behaviors are so much easier for me to change than thought patterns. For my physical health, this is very, very lucky. But mentally I am just stuck. I am sure that I am not alone in having a dysfunctional relationship with food. Has any woman grown up unscathed? I want to set Livy free from it all. It is not innately female to hates one's body. There is an alternative way to be. How can break the cycle when I am still not completely healthy in my own mind?