Our eyes are our eyes, extensions do not lengthen us.
We blush only for ourselves, knowing the forest for every tree,
surrounding foliage, average rainfall, temperature, even in Celsius.
We hide without hiding, unseen and unseemly.
We are hyper-quiet and lost, insecure in others, but found in self,
finding it all too easy to skip time and generations,
We foresee all calamity arising in the afternoon.
We are walking, talking, skin: all-feeling, heavy in the clouds,
gin tears and pillows, week-old bruises from God-knows-what.
Our time is gold and silence is weighted in weeks and whimpers
in whole wails alongside walls, chilled but comforting.
We don’t pretend to understand Ophelia, but we like the way she lies.
We fantasize about living under a tree, playing as shade, covering, yet true.
ABOUT THIS POEM
After a lifetime of being bombarded with female ideals of beauty, certain skin tones, diets, exercise routines, and a culture that encourages hair dyeing and make up, I realized that wasn’t who I was and how I wanted to spend my energy. I didn’t want to spend my emotional resources wanting to be someone else. Seeing so many homogeneously-faceless people, with mannerisms all the same, and their collective lack of originality in how they looked and the way they expressed themselves, I realized that I’m likely not alone. There are other women who are just being women, hidden behind and away from the culture, and that thought makes me immeasurably happy.