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.
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.
Write something about yourself. No need to be fancy, just an overview.