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Gorgeous in Your Weakness

Gorgeous in your weakness...

Thought for a moment I was through with you. But painted fingers and 'Bells for Her' had me calling to be sure you had not died on the operating table. Can't sort out in my mind why I am so afraid of this. What exactly I am afraid of. How I am projecting my own ugliness on an action not my own, nothing to do with me, none of my business. I have always prided myself on my non-judgemental distance with my friends. Perhaps I was lying entirely.

It's just that, since it was final or even since it was a spark - I have found myself alone at the playground - plastic glasses white skin I cannot conceal from the carrion crows. And the way I was defeated daily - and then spent my grown up days picking up crumbs - hiding them beneath the bed beneath high dollar hair and money dresses - sweeping them into neat invisible piles of witty remarks and well-readness nameless like a stone. My smallness comfortably invisible. Convinced the days of self-apology are behind myself. Making circles in an empty soundstage - alone - and searching for their expressions.

I escape the razor's edge of thin neat seeping lines on my thigh by disallowing myself such neatness now. I glory in my splotches and the dirt beneath my fingernails. I paint pictures in my basement of the way I smell in the morning and the bruises that define me like a smile. Gorgeous in my weakness.

It's not that I believe ugliness is the only truth. Or that cleaning and loving ourselves is not it's own form of enlightenment. It's that I am so terrified I am not enough - that if I were to believe it in any form - there would be no end to the accoutrements which serve only to affirm the lie that the mystery of my own skin and bone was mistaken.

11:13 a.m. - 2007-04-24
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