~la fille mauvaise~
lumps on my thin chest like love mounds eagerly await tormenting caresses and yet no matter how big they grow, i am not really of them--
them, them-- i see her now: is it the pink cardigan, the perfect blonde highlights, the flirtatious giggle that seems to say "you want me" and "i'm brainless" all at once-- is this what i lack?
is it that she possesses a flowery disposition and i've such untamed spirit, her affinity for grace blackened by my harsh tongue, her ability to admire her boyfriend's strength in the game while appropriately remaining detached on the sidelines of life--
when she swoons, she feels his roughness against her: this i do not envy-- my own fair skin shivers, remembering the horror of an icy december, his roughness--
his hands, too much, holding mine away-- volition stolen, then moved across his wretched topography of testosterone and my own no longer delicate and ivory but weak, sickened instead-- dying-girl hands, little-girl hands, lost-girl hands--
my sad eyes lower again, i see her again: she walks by me this time in the form of a tall, confident woman bearing her purse of essentials-- compact, cellular phone, tampons, lipstick-- my possessions, her possessions, we are sisters--
yet i have always carried purses the wrong way-- losing them in girlhood, abandoning cosmetics for a place alone and a book, a corner to hide from fear, to dream myself away from the darkness i didn't belong inside-- now these bags of beautiful bondage are equally lost on my arm after an hour, under a carseat or a table along with my desire to socialize--
and i realize: i am a girl gone wrong, as i place my purse in a boyfriend's hand, he casually applies lip gloss, i watch his own mouth shining all the radiant glow i am supposed to keep as my own-- but i am a good girl and i play nicely, i share my toys and i share beauty-- i am not a bad girl and yet i am, i am--
this is true: i am not of the fairer sex. the fair sex instead, i float weightlessly with the same genderless angels who aren't burdened by harshness and fear-- my love and i have brilliant wings and we soar, we soar--
contrapposto: my breasts balancing the weight on my back, the curse of my creation as such a little girl-- i shift but do not shudder in my boots, i fix my hair, i procure a pocket mirror: satisfaction--
alone, no crude construct of beauty template, the mold breaks: je suis la fille mauvaise, rose smiling in gardens of thorny women.
© 3rd november 2000, c.m.d.