The Longing Of Being

I was so pretty
And smooth too.
It was the way you found me
You couldn’t have seen me any other way
With your prescribed notions

Dig in, this tender flesh you think is for the taking

Break down the 23-year gossamer walls of my being
I built them delicate for a reason
Sweetness was my treasure
And now your sniveling mucus has clouded the translucent fibers

I am not hollowed out ash and bitterness like you.
Yet, somehow more like myself than I’ve been in years.

26-year walls of stained glass
Not flexible yet motleyed and how the light sparkles through them

In shines Truth, a lightening bolt quick but revealing
The storm is not over, more flashes are to come
And you better hope like hell some truths fall into shadows.
That is if you’re still in the habit of saving face.

In this sanctuaried frontier that I am, how do I clean the unclean?
Should I burn my bed soaked with impurities
So cleverly marketed as love?
I walled out the little trinkets and supposed sweet nothings
I mentioned my walls are glass.

I look at all the fuzzies you gave me.
The things I never wanted for the holidays.
They stare back at me wide eyed and sad
Like mutant children from some deranged divorce
They should not be faulted for their destiny as impersonal tokens
For last minute, secretive, quasi-Valentine’s celebrations.
Do you want them for the weekend
Or would that be too much reality for you?

And ladies and gentlemen,
Do not think I have given in to your postmodern gimmicks and dribble
Spewed in your artist’s mill.
This has very little to do with you.
True, you shat all over my inspiration
And sent it cowering to dark places for a few years
But as I said, I’m in the habit of illuminating the depths of my self these days.
Nonetheless, I have always been an idealist
With a longing to have it my way
All you have done is remind me
I do it without being a manic, medicated, drama queen
Crying out, revealing that oh so forbidden vulnerability
Which you cultivated for yourself

But we artists cultivate, that’s what we do right?
Cultivate ourselves right into a 20x24 inch, gray, meaningless grave
Where I’m nowhere to be found

I stand on the perimeter full, wise, and inherently pretty
No thanks to you

-Jessica Somers, February 19, 2003