Oh, how I wish my eyes were the prettiest shade of green! So that whenever his gaze
fell upon a flower stem, he might think of me.
Instead, my eyes are the mud on the bottom of his shoe.
In the right lighting, they may
be….the dog poop.
And I covet hair as flowy and long as the magnificent willow tree.
I can imagine the way
the wind would blow and all he could see would be me.
Yet here I am, the lowly hedge in need of a trim. Left to decay, unwanted,
especially by him.
How I envy those with skin comparable to a piece of untouched glass.
Or maybe stainless steel so I could be unbreakable? Yes. Unbreakable is all I want to be,
but fear I’m the rugged bark of the oak tree, with only an infinitesimal chance of ever
The oceans and tides move for the flower stem, willow-treed, glass-steeled girls; and there
are mountains that block the way for us muddy hedge like dog-poop oak tree girls.
Mountains impossible to climb.
Mountains of devastation, insecurity, depression.
Mountains that would never impede a willow tree.
And my oak-y skin itches with guilt, like I’ve rolled in a bath of poison ivy because I know
every time I bring down myself, I am bringing down every other muddy hedge like
dog-poop oak tree girl and that’s not fair to them. No, it’s all so pretty on them.
It’s dog-poop’s no more. Instead, on them, it’s sweet like coffee, and the hedges are comforting;
filling in a graceful topiary, and then
the oak leveled, a smooth mahogany.
So why does it look so bad on me?
Everyone wants the flower-stemmed, willow-treed, glass-steeled girls, and the
sweet-as-coffee and topiary-graced, Mahogany Girls, too. But absolutely no one wants a muddy hedge-like oak tree girl. Really,
I could be anyone but me, but I think I’d find a way to hate myself even then.
No matter the transformation, mahogany, or glass, I wouldn’t know how to like myself.
I want to end this on a cheerful note, but then I would be lying, and lying is a thing I don’t