Poetry by Kyrsta Morehouse

              spoilt.exile CC



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Maybe That’s Me.

“I love you, but you're kinda a bitch.”
The dreaded answer that escaped 
his frat boy grin when asked why I'm still 
single. Bitch. That word burns like beet 
red skin at the end of summer. Why did it hurt 
me, is it because I know it's true? But what is a bitch? 
To him it may be defined as bold, sharp, 
aggressive, and overly confident. My shoulders break 
forward as I collapse in on myself like a dying 
star. Is that all I am?

But maybe a bitch is more 
than that. Maybe she is the statue 
of a survivor, a mother’s protective instinct, 
and the dandelion stem after it’s beauty is blown 
away. Maybe she’s a finished puzzle awaiting 
a frame and not the final puzzle piece. Maybe 
she has dry humor and quick wit; the snap 
of her quip can sting like a bee but that doesn’t take 
away from the laughter bubbling within. Maybe 
she is the sound of tearing roots as a weed is torn 
from the earth. Sometimes pain is needed 
to make room for new growth like stretch marks mapping 
her curves. Maybe she inked the words ‘Daddy Issues’ 
on her heart the day she realized she could only remember 
her parents apart, each stick and poke telling 
her even Superman leaves. 

Maybe she is bullhorns, thunder clapping, microphone 
static, and a car's backfire. Maybe she is weary 
from molding herself into what others want her to be, folding 
herself inside-out so many times she has long since forgotten 
which way is right side out. Maybe she stains 
her hair like sapphires to become someone else, someone 
fitting of a precious gemstone; a bleach and mermaid 
filled baptism presenting her anew. Maybe she is herself; 
unapologetic in a world full of bait-and-switch. 
Maybe she threatens the patriarchy each time she kisses 
a girl’s rose petal lips and becomes intoxicated 
by her vanilla perfume. 

Maybe she is fresh pavement, towering waves, and tornado 
warnings. Maybe she cries rivers of pain late 
at night when the world falls asleep; you never know 
what haunts another person's shadow. Maybe the birthmark 
on her temple is really a bruise, permanent and pink, a tender 
reminder that some scars never heal. Maybe 
some days she is a lemonhead - her sour overpowering 
her sweet - maybe some days you are too. Maybe 
she has code switched for so many years 
that each time she opens her mouth, an avalanche 
of second guessing swarms her tongue and fights to swallow 
back the words before she can show 
her true colors.

Maybe she is never ending drives, the squeal 
of ‘Hot Crossed Buns’ played on a recorder, 
and the first sip of black coffee that scorches 
your tongue. Maybe her crooked nose is a monument 
to the schoolyard “saints” casting stones and gawking 
at the pool of crimson enveloping her; she can still taste 
the metal in their words. Maybe she is damaged 
and flawed; name a soul without a bruise. I’ll wait. 
Maybe she hides behind stone to protect her spun-sugar 
heart, too many years of selfish people tearing
it from her sleeve. Maybe she learned to protect 
herself when she realized no one was applying 
for the position. 

Maybe that's me.
What can I say? I’m kinda a bitch, but I love it. 
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Kyrsta Morehouse is a bisexual poet living in the city of Angels. Though her main profession is as a celebrity makeup artist/film photographer, she is currently working hard on her first full poetry manuscript. 

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