I do not like the way
by The Dreamer
I do not like the way I speak: missing octaves and fluctuating like a scarf bellowing in the inconsistent summer breeze. falling and rising and falling and rising and soft and loud and soft and loud. I do not like the way my jaw clicks and my teeth unalign and every syllable I utter is a jarring noise, an incomplete note, rudely interrupted by the meat between my teeth. Like pressing the white and black keys together hard with the base of your palm and slipping, like strumming a guitar and fingers getting stuck within the spaces between strings, like blowing a trumpet and running out of breath.
I do not like the way my fats spill over: like undercooked deflated cake batter spilling over the oven pan. I do not like the way I become breathless from sucking in so hard and so consciously and depriving myself of air. I do not like the way the lumpiness of my tummy feels like how Giving Up would feel, if Resignation was tangible.
I do not like the way my thighs kiss: there is nothing romantic about it, can I please have kisses on my lips instead? I do not like the sweaty slick and the rough abrasions and the obscene sounds they make when they get too intimate and these two are lovers I desperately want to tear apart.
I do not like the way I tire myself, opting to run only within the confines of my head even though I know that the feeling of my feet pounding against asphalt and my heart pounding against my ribcage can feel so good. I do not like the way I exhaust myself mentally instead of physically.
I do not like the way I try to write beautifully about the parts of me that I do not find beautiful at all. I do not like the way I string words together, thinking it will be my rope out of this darkness, but instead I end up weaving myself a deadly noose adorned with beautiful living (slowly dying) flowers. I do not like the way words that should empower me like my most inexhaustible source of magic yet they make me feel so incredibly small. Words are a weapon wielded to fight my enemies, but what happens when your greatest enemy is the inner-me? It becomes a poetically tragic paradox: something intended to heal but resulting in hurting…harming…haunting.