Hi, everyone! I’m back! I had a rough several weeks there, and my writing took a hit. Brain fog, am I right? (All my fellow Lymies just nodded in sage solidarity.) I did, however, manage to write this poem on a dusky April night a couple weeks back, and am finally ready to share it. It’s not a lighthearted warm and fuzzy read, but it’s real. I’ve since alighted to a better place, but I felt this was important to share.
Cheers, The Foda
“The Face in the Mirror”
I’m combusting, she said.
Like cellophane squeezed over too much bread.
I’m bursting with nothing but skin to contain me within.
Beholden to anyone living and learning while tucked in a body that
Screams in the silence.
Each cell like a prison,
For my cells are violence incarnate.
Cells selling me out so they erect
a cell wall;
Make it tall
so the coup is complete, yet I can’t claim defeat.
Oh, to replete.
My stores are empty;
I’ve used all my wares,
and I’ve still so far to go,
she sighed with a far-away stare.
You’d think, she remarked, I’d get better with coping.
With overriding this ornery statue of limitations on hoping.
My world is a pinwheel;
It spins in shades of blue
and what more can I do
and will I ever be normal like you?
So give me your prayers, she asked quite plain,
and I’ll show you my heart.
It’s brittle and beaten,
But just like a gem, you won’t know its strength until it’s been
Do you see me now, she asked, and I nodded with her in perfect align.
And our eyes filled with dreams
and sorted to grace a shelf of some other time.
The face in the mirror.
The face that is mine.