A Portrait of the Artist- Of Sorts.

I am less than tall,
With dark, unruly curls,
Skin that burns not too easily
And eyes of mixed-color whorls.

I live in jeans-
Except when I move into dresses.
I love the golden hour:
Bare shoulders, wild tresses.

I like chocolate chip cookies
And pink lemonade.
My fingernails are long and squared-
They are not painted.

My ears are awkward.
My nose is strangely shaped.
My complexion does not conform
To the accepted topological range.

My favorite pain
Is that of a laughing stomach.
I have two tongues.
Most say I have one sister.
(They know only how to count in blood).

I am afraid of answering the phone.
I am afraid of scraping my knees.
I am afraid of spiders, beetles, bees-
Of far too many things.

I want to befriend a flower,
I want to scatter dandelion seeds.
I want to linger in a tree-
Someday.

I build castles in the air.
I get lost within my head.
My childhood is scattered
Among the books that I have read.

I am sentimental.
But I prize rationality.
I am romantic.
And I lack practicality.

I can tell you about
Ascending orders of infinity.
I can charm you with paradox,
I can enchant you with irony.

My friends are few.
They are beloved.

I read marriage

As souls intertwining.

My mind is filled with wherefores
And punctuated with question marks.

I think--

I love him.

I write long letters.
I do not tell great stories.
I want to be a good mother.
I hope to be lovely.

Just a poem

Hello, hello, dear Reader,

So it is National Eating Disorders Awareness week, and wonderful people have been placing sneaky notes around campus reminding people that they are worthwhile and beautiful. It makes me happy that someone actually took the time to write these. The messages, though small, are important. And the messages, though they may seem silly and trivial, can be difficult to hear. The following is a poem I wrote after encountering some of those handwritten notes posted on mirrors and in bathroom stalls and on water fountains. Hopefully we will remember to be kind to each other and to show a bit of love. We can never be certain the difference a kind word or thoughtful gesture may make. Happy Friday! (Or whatever day of the week it may be for you now.)

A strange thing happened to me today.

I wept, in a bathroom stall

Because a stranger had left me a note

Telling me I was

Beautiful.

No, it wasn’t addressed to me, not exactly,

But it was left for me,

Stuck on the inside of the door:

Perfect people are not real.
Real people are not perfect.
Love your flaws.
Forgive yourself.
Because you are-
You are-
You are beautiful.

That word… it hit me.

It jolted me.

Its underlines crept into the

Underlying sadness of my soul

 And suddenly

Tears were slipping down my face.

It was like… they knew

How lonely

And empty

And weary

I …am.

I sank down, fighting back tears,

Fighting back the fighting back of tears,

Lips trembling and blurry eyes

Taking in the message

Again

And again

And again

Wondering whether to

Believe

My unknown admirer--

Questioning the plausibility,

Weighing the possibility,

Running over what I knew of me

And comparing it to she,

And then-

And then

I knew that the note could not have been

For me.

So I wiped my eyes

And left the note

For whomever it was meant to be.

For…Who would say

That I

 Am a beauty?

(Though I would like so very much to be.)